


Unbridled

by XavierWalker



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alexander Crow, I'll write a prelude later, LGBTQ Dragonborn, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Quest - In My Time of Need, Quest - No One Escapes Cidhna Mine, Quest - Old Hroldan Inn, Quest - The Forsworn Conspiracy, This is an exploration of these characters and certain sidequests, Violence, and torture, i promise this story is not super depressing, mentions of starvation and cannibalism, this takes place after the main questline has been completed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2018-11-18 17:37:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11295480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XavierWalker/pseuds/XavierWalker
Summary: Follow Crow after the defeat of Alduin; he has a new friend and nothing but time.





	1. Friends in Low Places

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism is welcome. :)

Riften is either the best or the worst city in Skyrim, depending on who you ask. When Crow strides through the main entrance on one warm Loredas evening, he is hit by a wave of different smells: sea salt, mead, sweat, sewage. He has been in and out of Riften so many times that he barely processes the changes in atmosphere; this place is more familiar to him than any of the other major cities.

The Thieves’ Guild crawls low below the cobblestone streets, cloaked in shadows and the whispers of old gods. Crow has been to the Ragged Flagon, has spoken to Brynjolf, but in the past he had very little time to spare, and now it feels as though the moment to join has passed.

Sometimes when Crow is making his way through the market, Brynjolf stares at him over his odd assortment of fake and overpriced products, giving Crow the strange sensation that something incredibly important is about to occur. Nothing ever happens, and today is no different. Crow passes by with a nod, and makes his way towards Mistveil Keep.

Yesterday, three hundred gold’s worth of jewelry had been stolen from Crow’s Riften home while he was away. The thief was definitely not one of Brynjolf’s boys, because he was caught and arrested the moment he stepped outside of Honeyside. Crow’s stolen valuables are currently sitting in a chest inside of the Riften jail, and he’s not exactly pleased about it. Of course, those gemstones are an insignificant fraction of the wealth he’s amassed whilst saving the world and slaughtering bandits, but the invasion on his home means he needs to upgrade his security and magical wards, which is an exhausting process.

Crow pushes the wooden door of the castle open with little effort. Behind it is a set of stairs with a sleeping guard seated at the bottom. Crow doesn’t bother masking the noise of his footsteps as he walks by, which leads to the guard jolting awake and standing quickly, knocking over his chair.

“Hey! Only those with official business can go in there!”

Crow stops walking and turns, drawing himself to his full height and fixing gleaming red eyes on the unfortunate guard. His legendary steel-plated armor shines in the torchlight, and he rests his hands on the hilts of his dual dwarven war axes.

“I am here to retrieve items stolen from my home. If you have a problem with that, you can take it up with the jarl,” announces Crow, and the guard swallows, nodding meekly.

Crow spins around and proceeds through the doors, marching over to the chest containing his lost property. He opens his bag of holding and starts shoving the precious gems into it, uncaring of how they end up stored. The magic will sort everything out. 

He’s about to leave when he hears a woman’s voice call out from one of the cells.

“Hey, you! Dragonborn! How come you lopped Ulfric Stormcloak’s head off and I’m still in this stinking cell?”

Crow stops in his path once more, turning to see a ragged woman clutching at the bars of her cell. Various items are strewn about her cell, and her hair falls over her shoulders in greasy strands. She frowns at Crow’s apathetic gaze, and presses closer to the bars.

“They threw me in here because I called Ulfric a liar; a deceiver. Now Maven bloody Black-Briar is the Jarl, and nothing has changed. You were Tullius’ attack dog, right? Get me the fuck out of here!”

In the past few years, Crow has done nothing but wonder if saving the world means he has to be a good person. People seem to think he wants to solve all of their problems, but all he really wants to do these days is be left alone. The only solace Crow has is that Paarthurnax never seems to condemn him when he voices these thoughts.

“I don’t know you,” he eventually says to the woman, and he wonders if his exhaustion is visible in his expression. Unlikely, considering that he hasn’t actually shown any emotions other than anger and apathy on his face in more than a decade. Some habits die hard, he supposes.

“They call me Threki in these parts,” states the prisoner, twisting her hands on the iron bars desperately. “There, now you know me. I promise I don’t belong here.”

“This sounds like an issue for the guards,” mutters Crow, stepping away, and Threki starts screaming. He jolts and backs away quickly, slamming against a cell on the other side of the room.

“Dear Gods, what is going on?” hisses a voice from behind him. Crow turns to see a khajiit sitting up from his bed in response to the ruckus.

Crow’s heart skips a beat as he makes eye contact with the khajiit, and adrenaline shoots through his veins. A dull ache blossoms at the back of his skull, like the memory of something painful, and he struggles to put his thoughts back in order.

The khajiit has a strong reaction as well. He leaps to his feet, gasping,

“You… you’ve come to kill me at last. Thank the Gods; I can bear the guilt no longer.”

Crow’s mind spins. As usual, he deeply regrets deciding to go out in public.

“Excuse me?” he manages to ask, throat dry. He feels like he would remember a khajiit with such stunning blue fur, but nothing comes to mind. Threki’s screams become bloodcurdling.

“I know I must die,” says the khajiit, regaining his composure. “Beware, though; my newfound honor demands I defend myself.”

His words sound scripted, like he’s been waiting a long time to say them.

“Do you… know me?” Crow asks, and immediately regrets the question. Of course this man knows him. Everybody does.

“I am in no mood for jokes! Strike me down! Take your revenge!” growls the khajiit, and Crow wonders if this man has lost his mind. He decides to give the same response as before.

“I don’t know you,” he says with a steely gaze, but is thrown for a loop when the khajiit’s expression changes to pure sorrow at his response.

“You don’t remember?” he asks, voice cracking. “Ah, that is my fault also! I am your so-called friend Inigo. I was the one who killed you! I tried, anyway. I am guilty! Kill me!”

“You tried to kill me?” questions Crow. This information is unsurprisingly useless. Most of the people he meets try to kill him.

Threki has stopped screaming and now kneels, panting and listening to their conversation. Crow doesn’t enjoy sounding stupid in front of an audience.

“Some time after I shot you, I realized my mistake and turned myself in. I told the local guards. Your body was gone. The fools didn’t believe me… said I was wasting their time. I had to _pay_ them to put me in this cell. It’s where I belong. I needed to repent. I _need_ to repent.”

There’s no way Crow is being mistaken for someone else; his features are too distinctive. There aren’t any other citizens of Skyrim with his slim build and albino coloring, as far as he knows.

“If you thought I was dead, then why are you here waiting for me?”

Inigo’s eyes light up with a fiery passion that is foreign to someone like Crow.

“Two months ago, I heard tales of a stranger in this land. They said this individual killed twenty bandits single-handed,” he explains. Crow remembers that night; the slashing and the fire and the shrieking. The fact that it was a job commissioned by the Jarl of Falkreath meant that everyone knew about it by the end of the week. “I knew it was you! It had to be! I knew you would be coming for me, so I waited. Are you going to kill me or not?”

“What exactly would I be killing you for?” Crow asks, curiosity getting the better of him.

“I see that I must relive it again,” Inigo murmurs, voice going rough. “Your memory is not what it was. We met on a job.”

“What kind of job?”

“The killing kind,” growls Inigo. “We were hired by a lord called Dupan to kill his brothers. With them gone, Dupan would inherit a great fortune and promised us much gold in return. Do you truly remember none of this?”

“If… it was an assassination job, then what you’re talking about happened at least seven years ago, before the threat of the apocalypse took this world by storm. Have you been keeping yourself in jail for seven years?” Crow speculates. Inigo shifts in place awkwardly.

“Ah, no. It took some time to… sort myself out.”

“Alright… what happened on the job?” Crow asks quietly.

“Before we left, Dupan told me that if only one of us returned from our mission, that one would get the other’s reward also. I was hooked on skooma at the time, and I had a bit of a debt problem, so…”

“You tried to kill me.” Crow’s expression becomes even more indiscernible. He hates dealing with addicts, as a general rule.

“Yes. It wasn’t an easy choice. We only knew each other for a short time, but I’d grown to like and respect you. We got on well and fought bravely side by side. I threw all that away for gold and skooma.”

“Did you get the reward?” asks Crow mechanically. He wonders how much skooma his supposed murder was worth.

“No. Dupan was murdered by his sister by the time I made it back to his keep. Our deal died with him. Money is an evil like no other, my friend. It is only just that I die by your hand.”

A plan is starting to formulate in Crow’s head. He’s been traveling alone for far too long, ever since J’zargo returned to his studies, and since the other one died. However, one crucial fact will determine whether he goes through with it.

“Are you still addicted to Skooma?” he asks carefully.

“No.” Inigo looks disgusted at the thought. “Ever since the… incident. I want to die with my senses intact. Kill me now. I am ready.”

“If you truly wish to die, I will not keep you from it,” Crow says, using the regal voice he puts on in front of war generals and dying kings. “However, I would like to grant you the opportunity to redeem yourself, fighting by my side.”

“I… fight with you?” Inigo is dumbfounded.

“Yes, Inigo. Repay your debt with the blood of my foes.”

“Or die defending you! Yes! I accept! I feel lighter in my heart now you have given me this opportunity. It will be like old times.”

“Just try not to shoot me again.”

“Do not joke about such things, my friend. The sadness I feel for what I have done is brutal enough… for now.”

Crow wasn’t joking, but he decides not to mention it.


	2. Creature of the Storm

Inigo watches Crow carefully as they make their way out of the prison, but is easily distracted by the familiar smells and sights of the Riften marketplace. It has been what feels like ages since he locked himself in that cell, and now that he is out he realizes just how much he has missed this place. He breathes in deeply, closing his eyes and taking everything in. 

Crow stops and stares at him.

He is... shockingly different from when Inigo saw him last. He had only been nineteen when Inigo had betrayed him; a thin, quiet boy that was quick with a blade nonetheless. Crow may have lost his memories of those times, but Inigo remembers how curious he was, how he had bright eyes and a fascination with the unknown.

This Crow stares straight ahead with dead eyes and the stance of a soldier. He wears tailor-made armor and carries an amalgamation of different weapons made of many varying materials, but keeps his head free from any sort of protection, leaving his thick, white curls of hair free to shift in the wind.

“We need to move on,” says Crow, and Inigo has the distinct feeling that he is going to have to get used to taking orders.

“As you say, my friend,” he agrees, and they start walking again. “Where are we going?”

“Whiterun. I need to drop off some supplies at my house there.”

“You have your own home?” asks Inigo, impressed. “What is it like?”

Crow glances at him for a moment as they move through the Riften gate, heading up the northern road. Many of the guards nod at Crow as they pass. Crow ignores them.

“It is called Breezehome,” is all he ends up saying on the matter, and he marches along the right side of the road with a resolute finality that warns off further conversation.

===

They move towards Whiterun with all haste, as Crow shuts down every conversation that Inigo tries to start. It has gotten to the point where Inigo's declaration that his favorite color is blue was met with complete silence.

Inigo is by no means unfit, but after a few hours of fast-paced travel, he is finding it increasingly difficult to keep up. Crow hasn't even looked at him since they left The Rift and started traveling west along the border of Eastmarch, and Inigo can't help comparing him to the Crow of the past; the boy that had laughed quietly at all of Inigo's jokes and listened wide-eyed to all of his ridiculous stories.

“My dear friend, perhaps we should stop and rest for awhile?” Inigo calls out to Crow, who has gotten fifteen paces ahead and shows no sign of slowing down.

Crow suddenly stops and turns to face him, looking for all the world like he had forgotten Inigo was there. His eyes seem to glow in the fading light as Inigo sways under his gaze like the frost-tipped trees around them.

“You...” he stops, and clears his throat. “You need to sleep?”

“Well,” Inigo hesitates, glancing at the setting sun. He had just been suggesting a thirty minute break, but now that he thinks about it, he's not exactly keen on marching through the night. “Perhaps we should set up camp for the night, my friend. If we sleep now, we can continue our journey in the early morning.”

Crow nods in response. They set up a small campfire off-road that Crow lights with a whisper, and Inigo rests his back against an old tree that smells of sap and wisdom. He watches as Crow sits in front of the growing fire, with crossed legs and his back ramrod-straight, head bowed in thought.

Inigo sits and listens to Mr. Dragonfly for a while, but eventually his weariness catches up to him, and he falls asleep.

... 

He dreams of a great storm, lightning crashing down all around him. Standing on a hill in the distance is a humanoid figure, hand raised towards the roiling heavens. Inigo calls out a name that he immediately forgets, and the figure lowers its arm and turns to face him.

Its eyes are made of fire, and blood pours down from a wound on its head.

“You...” it rasps out with the voice of a draugr. “You did this to me!”

It screams, metal scraping metal, and lunges for him.

... 

Inigo is shaken awake by a man with fiery red eyes, and he hisses, jerking away. The man's eyes narrow as they are both pelted with rain from the onyx sky.

“We must go. The storm moves South; we are moving West, so we should leave it behind.”

Lightning crashes into a tree half a mile away, and Inigo stumbles after Crow as the resounding thunder shakes the ground beneath them. They head back onto the road, and Inigo is quick to adapt to the slide of his boot on the slippery cobblestone.

He is soaked through, and he wonders how long Crow let the storm rage around them before deciding to wake him up. Mr. Dragonfly flutters about anxiously in his jar, untouched by the rain but cowed by the storm.

“It will be all right, Mr. Dragonfly. Like all things, this storm will come to an end,” Inigo says comfortingly. Crow glances at him, but decides not to comment.

They brave their way through the storm with difficulty; at one point, the winds are so strong that Inigo has to tilt his body forward and shield his face to progress. An hour into their struggle, he looks over to see that Crow is fighting to move forward as well, pulling his wet fur cloak tight around his shoulders and staring unseeing up into the night sky.

“Inigo,” he says, so faintly that Inigo has to strain his ears to hear it. “Have you ever battled with a dragon?”

“I, I cannot say that I have!” shouts Inigo across another crash of thunder as the preceding lightning briefly turns the sky white in its glory. Crow looks to the sky again, then slowly pulls his falmer bow off the harness on his back.

“This storm is about to become far worse,” he says quietly, and Inigo's blood runs cold as he realizes the implication behind those words.

He wrenches his bow from his shoulders and spins, scanning the tumultuous sky, blinking furiously as the rain pelts his eyes. There is an uneventful moment, and then-

Inigo hears it. A cacophonous roar, similar to the storm's thunder, and the furious flapping of large wings. An ancient voice cries out from above,

“ _Dovahkiin_! _Zu'u Los Ziipaarlok_!”

Crow lets an arrow fly towards the voice, but the winds sweep it away.

“ _Zu'u Lost Kril Daar Strun Wah Grah Voth Hin Zoor-Bahlaan Dovah-Zul_!” cries the dragon, and Inigo can hear its struggle with the storm in the tremble of its powerful voice.

“ _Mey_!” screams Crow in response, upper lip curling in a snarl as his Word sweeps the clouds.

Roaring, a glimmering dragon finally gives in to the weight of the storm, and goes crashing into a nearby hill. Crow immediately dashes towards it, ripping his axes from his hips as he goes. Inigo rushes after him, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

As they get closer, Inigo can see the many rows of spikes down the dragon's back, and the spade-shape of it's tail. He can hardly breath as he fires arrow after arrow into the thing, trying to distract it from Crow, who dodges fireballs and vicious snapping teeth as he hacks away at its neck and screams Words of Power into its face.

Finally, Crow leaps onto its head and drives his axe into its skull with a _crack!_ The dragon goes limp, sliding down the hill towards Inigo, who slips in the mud as he quickly backs away.

Crow leaps off of the dragon's head, landing in front of it with a muddy splash. Inigo watches in awe as strands of light burst out of its corpse and spiral into Crow, who kneels in front of the skull of what is now an impressive skeleton. He places a hand on the bony brow of the dead beast, eyes closed.

“Dragonborn,” Inigo rasps, mostly to himself. Crow doesn't respond.

Inigo shifts in place, unsure of what to do. After a moment, Crow stands, inhaling deeply.

Then, as though nothing has changed, he begins marching down the road to Whiterun once more.

Inigo follows him, sheathing his bow and running forward to walk by Crow's side.

“You are one interesting individual,” he starts, and then stops, words failing him.

Crow looks up at the sky again, and Inigo turns his head to do the same.

“She wasn't the brightest dragon I've ever contended with. Few would fly out into a storm like this,” says Crow, raindrops sliding down his face in an appropriate mimicry of tears.

“Does this happen very often?” asks Inigo, uncertain whether the tightness he feels in his chest is anxiety or excitement. Crow sighs.

“Not so much, these days, since Alduin was slain,” he responds, as though he was not the catalyst for that legendary event.

Over the next few minutes, the rain slows to a light drizzle, and the sky begins to brighten. Inigo sees the shape of a slowly-turning windmill on the horizon, and he can smell the freshly turned earth of a farm.

“Oh, look,” says Crow. “We're here.”


	3. A Series of Unfortunate Events

Crow and Inigo make their way into Skyrim’s center of trade, Whiterun. The guards nod in deference as they pass through the main gate, and Inigo supposes being famous all over Skyrim has its perks.

The smell of fresh produce and burning coals is wafted towards Inigo, the scents made stronger by the recent storm. The playful screams of distant children make his ears twitch, and like every time he enters Whiterun, he tells himself he should visit more often.

They are stopped by a tall redguard man wearing the native garb of Hammerfell. Inigo sees Crow’s nostrils flare and gaze sharpen as this man steps into his path, and his hand subtly goes to rest on his weapon.

“You there,” declares the man, unaware of who he’s speaking to. “We are looking for someone in Whiterun, and will pay good money for information.”

Crow squares his shoulders and makes a show of leaning over to look at the front door to his house, which is hardly twenty feet away. Inigo quickly responds to the man,

“Who are you looking for?”

“A woman. A foreigner in these lands; redguard, like us,” the man explains, raising his eyebrows at Crow’s clear disinterest. “She is likely not using her true name. We will pay for any information regarding her location.”

The man hesitates, and then continues,

“We are not welcome here in Whiterun, so we will be in Rorikstead if you learn anything. Ask for the Alik’r.”

“Okay,” says Inigo awkwardly as Crow shoves past the man. “We will keep that in mind.”

He hurries after Crow, who has flung open the doors of a quaint little house beside the blacksmith’s store. When he steps through the door frame, he is instantly struck by the notion that this house is bigger on the inside than it appears on the outside.

A woman, beautiful by Nordic standards, rises from the dining table as they enter the room. Crow walks up to her and they clasp hands.

“Crow! It is an honor to see you again!” says the woman, shocked at his drenched appearance. “You did not send a letter saying you were stopping by!”

“It’s good to see you, Lydia. I decided it might be best to drop in unannounced. I have a feeling that my mail is being read,” says Crow, eyes shifting around the room as he notes the changes that occurred while he was gone. Someone put a green paint hand print and several smudges on his wallpaper.

“You are far too paranoid, and you know that means a lot coming from me,” says Lydia, grinning and releasing him. She turns to see Inigo, and a surprised expression flits across her face. She is about to say something, when-

“Crow!” shrieks a small child, bursting out of a room near the back. “You’re home!”

Inigo watches, mouth agape, as Crow sweeps the child off her feet and settles her on his hip. His steely gaze softens, somewhat, and he says,

“Lucia. You are never up this early.”

“I heard you talking to Lydia! I didn’t know you were coming,” pouts Lucia, “or I would have found a gift for you.”

“Is it not my job to bring home gifts for you?” asks Crow, pulling a small stuffed rabbit out of his bag of holding. Lucia gasps in delight and snatches it from him. Crow sets her on the ground and turns to take off his boots, but Lucia grabs his hand and starts tugging him towards her bedroom.

“Come on! I want to show you my new book and introduce Mr. Fluffy to his new home!”

“That’s a terrible name,” says Crow, and Lucia’s affronted yell is the last thing Inigo hears before he is left alone with Lydia.

There is a moment of awkward silence, Lydia seeming to have forgotten what she was going to say to him. Her expression is stern, and Inigo finds himself struggling for something to say.

“So… are you… his-”

“No,” snaps Lydia, disdain evident in her features. “I’m his housecarl.”

“Ah.”

They both pause as they hear Lucia giggling from the other room.

“He hasn’t come home with anyone in a long while,” says Lydia eventually. “When did the two of you meet?”

“Eh, technically, seven years ago,” responds Inigo. “Recently, yesterday.”

Lydia runs a hand down her face, sighing.

“You know what? I actually don’t want to know. But here’s something you should know: Crow hasn’t had a traveling companion for three years. The last one died right before he left to kill Alduin. After that, he swore he would never take anyone with him again.”

Lydia sits down in at a small table near the door, and gestures for Inigo to sit across from her. He does, removing his bracers and setting them on the table. Lydia leans back in her chair and closes her eyes.

“I remember when I fought by his side, long ago,” she mumbles. “He didn’t actually want me around, but I may have convinced him that he couldn’t leave me behind as a Thane of Whiterun. That was by far the most ridiculous time of my life.”

“Did you get into a lot of trouble?” asks Inigo, curious.

Lydia opens one eye and smirks.

“Loads.”

Inigo finds himself grinning back, and pesters her into telling him embarrassing stories about Crow. She’s halfway through regaling him with the tale of the time Crow unknowingly purchased an entire brothel, when the man himself emerges from Lucia’s room, looking exhausted.

Lydia rises at his presence, and Inigo is intrigued at how her responses are a bizarre mix between rigidly formal and overtly familiar.

“There was a storm on the border between Eastmarch and the Rift,” Crow informs Lydia. “It hit us in the dead of night. A dragon braved it and met her end on the hill east of Pelagia’s farm.”

“A dragon attacked you in a thunderstorm?” Lydia asks incredulously. “I thought they were supposed to be wise.”

“Some of them confuse rash action with bravery,” he says, sighing. Lydia frowns.

“Perhaps you should head over to the Bannered Mare. Take the edge off,” she suggests.

“You know I do not partake,” he responds, and Lydia rolls her eyes.

“We have a word for people like you, you know,” she retorts. Crow snorts and runs a hand through through his damp curls. Lydia turns to Inigo.

“Are you a milk-drinker?” she inquires with a seemingly innocent expression, and Crow scowls from behind her.

“No, ma’am,” Inigo hisses, a laugh curled up on the back of his tongue like a sabre cat ready to pounce. “I drink mead like water.”

“Then perhaps you should head over there for Inigo’s sake, Crow,” Lydia concludes, smiling as he tenses his jaw, considering his options.

“Very well,” he finally responds. “Come, Inigo.”

As they leave, Lydia shows Inigo a very rude hand gesture involving three fingers, and Crow has to drag him out by the collar of his cloak as Lydia’s roaring laugh chases them down the street.

“I did not think you two would get on so well,” grumbles Crow as they push their way through the marketplace. Inigo relishes in the smell of well-cooked fish coming from one of the wooden stands.

“Your Lydia is incredibly entertaining,” says Inigo with a smirk as they stride through the entrance of the Bannered Mare.

“She is not mine,” replies Crow distractedly as an orc warrior in iron armor notices him and calls out from a corner table.

“Hey, Crow. It’s been months since you visited me! How about you ditch that kitty-cat and let me show you my room here!” he cackles, and Crow’s expression turns furious.

“I have no time for you right now, Lurbac, and you’d do well to apologize to my associate for your rude comment.”

The orc stands with a drunken sway, and the inn becomes hushed as he stumbles over to them. Inigo places a hand on the hilt of his sword, ready for a fight.

“You can’t blame me for being rude,” growls Lurbac, reaching up a hand to grab Crow’s chin. “It’s been far too long since I’ve seen you writhing around on my bedsheets-”

Crow backhands him viciously, sending him careening into a table. The force of his weight shatters it, and the crowd around them gasps.

“You’re paying for that,” snarls Crow, and flames lick their way up from his palms to surround his face like a demonic halo.

Lurbac look up at him from the ground, blood pouring out of his nose, and grins.

“I’ll pay you ten gold to hit me again,” he rasps, spitting out a tooth. Crow wipes off his gauntlet with his cloak, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“You’re not worth the effort it takes to strike you,” he hisses, and finally a redguard employee steps between them to prevent further conflict.

“Alright, alright,” she says, trying to diffuse the situation. “I don’t want to have to kick anyone out, so let’s all just go back to our drinks, yeah?”

“Fine,” Lurbac chuckles. “But you know where to find me.” He winks at Crow.

“You make me wish I had not sworn an oath against alcohol,” retorts Crow, walking over to a table on the opposite side of the room. Inigo follows him, glancing back warily, just in case Lurbac changes his mind. 

They sit down, and Crow glares across the room, clenching his fists on the table. Inigo tries to turn his mind to other things.

“Chaos seems to follow you wherever you walk, my friend.”

“That is an accurate statement,” says Crow, shifting his eyes back to Inigo. The fire that previously surrounded his form seems to have extinguished itself, and Inigo makes a mental note to ask about that later. “If you continue to stay by my side, you will see just how true it is.”

The redguard woman approaches their table to take their order, and Inigo is reminded of a conversation he had earlier.

“Excuse me,” he says to the woman, distracting her from trying to take a sulking Crow’s order. “Did you know that there are some Alik’r warriors nearby looking for a redguard woman?”

The woman’s expression instantly changes, and she leans in closer to stare him down.

“Are you sure?” she whispers. “By the Gods, they’ve found me.”

Her gaze shifts to Crow, who looks as though he would rather be anywhere else.

“Both of you, come with me. I need to speak with you privately.”

Begrudgingly, Crow follows her up into the attic of the inn, Inigo close behind. They move single file up the stairs, and as Crow and the woman enter the room, Inigo hears a knife being whipped out of its sheath.

He rushes the rest of the way up, pushing his way in front of Crow.

“So, are you working with them?” challenges the woman, crouched in a defensive position. “If either of you so much as touches me, you’re going to lose fingers.”

“What?” Inigo hisses, holding out his left arm to slow a possible attack on Crow, who is looking far too apathetic for this situation.

“I mean it! I’ll… I’ll cut you in half!” she shouts, and Inigo wonders if she realizes that the entire inn can hear her. “So the Alik’r know where I am? What did they offer you? Gold? How many more of them are coming?”

“Put that down before you get hurt,” drawls Crow from behind Inigo, and the woman switches to pleading.

“I’m sorry, just… just don’t hurt me. I know you’re not one of them, but you just can’t help them. You can’t let them know I’m here!” she cries, and Inigo feels his heart pull with pity. “Please, will you help me? There’s no one here I can trust.”

“Perhaps,” Crow says, stepping forward. “If there’s gold to be had.”

“There will be,” the woman says seriously. “Of that, you can be assured.”

“Why are these people hunting you?” interrogates Crow, intent on understanding the situation before diving straight in.

“I am not the person that the people of Whiterun think I am. My real name is Iman. I am a noble of house Suda in Hammerfell. The men who are looking for me - the Alik’r - are assassins in the employ of the Aldmeri Dominion. They wish to exchange my blood for gold.”

Crow’s eyes narrow at the mention of the Dominion.

“What exactly are you asking me to do?”

“I need you to root them out and drive them away before they find me and drag me back to Hammerfell for an execution,” commands Iman. “They’re mercenaries, only in it for the money. They’re led by a man named Kematu. Get rid of him, and the rest will scatter.”

“Any suggestions on how I find them?” inquires Crow.

“I don’t dare show my face, lest they recognize me, so you’ll have to figure it out on your own,” she says. “I heard one of them was just arrested trying to sneak into the city. If he’s locked up in the jail, perhaps you can get it out of him.” 

“...What do you think, Inigo?”asks Crow, turning to look at him. Inigo blinks at the sudden attention.

“If she really needs help, we should not turn her down,” he decides, and Crow gives him a considering look. Iman seems to resent Crow's hesitation.

“Please; I know I’m asking you to do something difficult- maybe even dangerous. I just don’t know who else I can trust. Besides, you’re the dragonborn, aren’t you? Aren’t you supposed to help people?”

“Fine,” agrees Crow. “We’ll go to see the prisoner tomorrow.”

“Not tonight?” asks Iman, frowning. Crow grits his teeth.

“We came out here to relax, but I honestly should have known better than to tempt the fates with two public appearances in as many days. I’m going _home_ ,” he growls, and storms back down the stairs. Iman turns to Inigo.

“Make sure he follows through,” she says, and Inigo merely nods in response.

When he arrives back at Breezehome, Lydia is there to greet him at the front door.

“What went wrong?” she asks, weary.

“Practically everything,” answers Inigo. Lydia’s expression shutters.

“That sounds about right.”


	4. Back to Business

After the calamity of the previous day, Inigo is almost surprised that he wakes up peacefully, rather than to some sort of disaster. He knew that traveling with the dragonborn would likely be a more intense lifestyle than he was used to, but he didn’t anticipate the ridiculous back-to-back drama that seems to follow Crow wherever he goes.

He can almost believe that the Fates _are_ at work here.

He sits up under the emerald green bed covers, yawning. Crow had allowed him to sleep in his bed for the night, claiming that he “doesn’t need it”. Inigo hadn’t been sure what to say to that, so he just thanked Crow profusely for keeping him off the cold wooden flooring.

The smell of cooking eggs and and ham makes its way lazily into the room from the cooking area below, and Inigo’s stomach growls. He growls back, and swings his legs over the side of the bed to go bother Lydia until she feeds him.

He freezes as he notices that Crow is standing in the doorway.

Well, not so much standing as leaning on the door frame, eyes closed. Inigo experimentally hisses; no reaction. He slowly stands and takes a step closer.

At this range, the bags under Crow’s eyes are far more prominent, and a curl of snow-white hair has fallen loose to dangle in front of his face. Inigo is tempted to blow air at it, but refrains. Instead, he moves over to the small table where he set his armor, starting the morning process of strapping all of it back on.

When he is finished he turns back to face his companion.

“Crow,” he calls, and the man immediately jerks awake, pushing off of the door frame.

“...Shit,” he grumbles, rubbing his eyes. “Sorry.”

“What were you doing there, my friend?” asks Inigo, amused.

“Hm,” Crow responds blearily. “Last night, I thought you might be dead. I came here, and you weren’t. I decided to guard the door.”

“Why would I be dead?” asks Inigo, incredulous. “Are we not safe in this house of yours?”

“Feeling,” hisses Crow. “I had a feeling.”

“Well, I am safe, my friend,” assures Inigo, laughing. “Come, let us go have breakfast.”

Crow blocks the doorway.

“Why do you call me that?”

“Eh, What?”

“ _Friend_.” The word is spat like some kind of curse.

“We are friends now, are we not? Or are you still angry at hearing that I shot you? That is understandable. I can refer to you as something else, if you prefer,” concedes Inigo, worried that he has crossed a line.

“I… don’t bother,” responds Crow, looking pissed. “We can be friends until a dragon swallows you whole. Then I can be alone again, thank the Gods.”

Inigo gets the feeling that Crow isn’t talking about him anymore.

“Is that how your previous companion passed away?” he inquires gently, trying to defuse Crow’s irrational anger. Crow eyes him suspiciously.

“How do you know about that?”

“Your Lydia told me.”

“She needs to learn to keep her mouth shut.”

“That is not a very nice thing to say about the woman that takes care of your child.”

“Lucia is not my child,” retorts Crow, suddenly looking as though he has aged ten years. “She is an orphan - daughter of no one. I let her live in my house so she doesn’t starve on the streets.”

There is a moment of silence.

“Crow?” A small voice from behind him. They both turn to see a child, teary-eyed. “Lydia said to tell you that it’s breakfast-time.”

“...Okay,” says Crow. “Did you-”

Lucia runs back down the stairs. Crow wipes all emotion from his face and follows her down. Inigo doesn’t feel very hungry anymore.

Lydia looks up from the cook pot as Lucia slams the door of her room shut, sobbing. Wordlessly, she hands Crow the ladle and heads over to calm down the child. Crow moves the ladle in the pot with absent, jerking motions, mind elsewhere.

Inigo carefully takes the ladle from him, mindful as he flinches away, and stirs the stew clockwise. He wonders if these past few days would have been better or worse if he was still in the Riften jail cell.

Crow seems to come back to himself, and he jerks his head towards the door.

“We’re leaving after you eat. Don’t get used to this; staying in a house is a rarity when you’re traveling with me.”

“I have sworn an oath to fight by your side,” responds Inigo, ears twitching. “Wherever your path may take you, however you choose to partake in this world; I will repay my debt to you as you see fit.”

Crow looks up at him with an unreadable expression.

“You will follow me to the corners of the world?”

“Yes. I will have your back, my friend.”

“Good.”

===

They leave without saying goodbye. Crow looks surprised that Inigo doesn’t challenge him on this decision, but Inigo knows when to keep quiet - regardless of what some people may think. They make their way up the stone steps to Dragonsreach, and then around the side towards the prison.

When they enter the room, the guards barely look up to acknowledge them from their game of poker. One of them slams down a hand of cards and they all yell obscenities at him as he rakes the chips over to his side of the table.

Crow makes a beeline to the redguard in the prison cell across from the entrance.

“You. I need to find Kematu. Where is he hiding?”

“You have a death wish, then?” the Alik’r splutters. “If you know that name, you must know to meet him would be your end.”

“Do you know who I am?” growls Crow. Inigo fights a smile.

“No? Look, it seems we both have needs. Perhaps we can help each other out,” decides the Alik’r. “I have dishonored my brothers by being captured, and so they have left me here. My life in the -”

“You want to be free?” interrupts Crow.

“Well, yes,” stutters the Alik’r. Crow spins around and points aggressively at one of the guards.

“You there! I want to pay this prisoner’s fine.”

“Done,” says the guard easily. “Convince him to stay out of the city while you’re at it, dragonborn.”

Crow tosses him a bag of a hundred gold, and then stares expectantly at the stationed guard nearby, arms crossed. The guard hurries to unlock the cell, fumbling with the key under Crow’s intense glare.

The Alik’r steps out of the cell, looking grateful.

“Tell me where Kematu is,” demands Crow.

“He’s west of Whiterun,” answers the Alik’r, raising an eyebrow. “It’s an unassuming little cave called the Swindler’s Den. You-”

“I know where that is,” Crow says, turning to Inigo. “Let’s go.”

“You know-? Hey, I’m still talking to you!” calls the Alik’r after him as they march away.

“You are very efficient,” compliments Inigo with a grin.

“I’m in a hurry to get back on the road. Remaining in the public eye for any longer is a proven temptation to the Fates,” explains Crow, glancing at him sidelong. “Besides, it’s not like he had anything useful to say.”

===

When they finally clear the boundaries of Whiterun, Crow sighs, but keeps his shoulders tense.

“Stay on your guard at all times,” he orders to Inigo. “Enemies of all kinds are drawn to me.”

“Very well,” agrees Inigo. “Say, do you know how to whistle?”

“Yes? Why do you ask?”

“Perhaps we could have signals, such as; if you whistle with your weapon out, that means I should attack on sight.”

“Couldn’t I just tell you to do that?”

“Yes, but whistling is so much more efficient, my friend.”

“If you say so,” grumbles Crow, and so they continue their journey.

The trees around them are red and brown with the changing of the seasons, and the dying leaves put a sweet smell in the air that reminds Inigo of The Rift. The sky is crystal clear, as though a storm had not raged past merely the night before.

As a result, though, the ground is damp and large branches are strewn about the fields of White Hold. Dragonflies flit here and there near still mud puddles, and Inigo hears Mr. Dragonfly hum at the sight of them.

Crow seems more calm out here, in the wilds of Skyrim. Inigo remembers that the younger Crow was the same. The poor boy hated when they had to stop at small towns for rest or supplies. He much preferred to sit in the forest with Inigo and talk through the night. Once he got going, Little Crow could speak for hours on end, and was glad to hear Inigo do the same.

He feels a pang as he remembers why he’s here, at the Older Crow’s side. None of the crimes of his past seem to guilt him as much as his attempt to take Crow’s life. This Crow may be older, meaner, and twenty times more emotionally constipated, but Inigo is going to repay his debts regardless.


	5. Morally Grey

They walk across the grassy hills of White Hold for some time, killing wolves as they go. Inigo has never seen anyone attacked as viciously and consistently by wild animals as Crow, and when he mentions it, Crow just gives him a weary look.

It is strange to see Crow fight. Little Crow had only known how to brandish a blade and dodge attacks with an unreal speed. These days, he incinerates his lesser enemies with a firebolt before they can even get near him, showing a proficiency in magic that Inigo himself has never been able to acquire.

The wind stirs Inigo’s fur, and he whips his tail back and forth as he scans the horizon. The sun, high in the sky, warms him to the bone in a way that is not entirely comfortable. Crow seems to know where they’re going, resolutely moving west and occasionally glancing towards the sun to judge their direction.

Inigo’s ears perk when he hears a long, high note on the wind, then two lower ones in quick succession. He glances up to see Crow with his weapon drawn, gazing at him curiously.

Inigo whistles back with the tune of Ragnar the Red, grinning toothily. Crow scowls and turns back around, but after another minute of marching, he warbles out the harmonic refrain. Inigo retorts with an original melody, then yelps as he’s pounced on by a snarling wolf from his right.

Crow blasts the thing off of him with a ball of fire, singing Inigo’ whiskers in the process. He gasps and rolls over, crouching to face another member of the wolf’s pack. He grabs his ebony sword from the ground and drives it through the wolf’s neck, blood coating the hand gripping the blade. He wrenches it back out, and wipes it clean on his leg.

“Good work,” praises Crow, and Inigo shakes his head with a feral grin.

“Watch you do not burn off my fur, Crow. You do not want to know what I look like without it.”

Crow looks vaguely fascinated by that thought.

“Have you shaved it off before?” he inquires, tilting his head as though he is trying to imagine it. Inigo shifts uncomfortably under his gaze.

“I was forced to, once, as a child. The other children thought they could make me look more like them. At the end of the day, all it did was make me ugly to both my kind and theirs.”

“You look excellent,” growls Crow with a stormy gaze, and that is by far the angriest compliment Inigo has ever gotten.

“Yes; I am glad that fur grows back. My brother, Fergus, thought my condition was hilarious, but only after he beat those bullies senseless.”

“You have a brother?”

“I did. An angry horde of racist townsfolk took his life, and he died saving me,” explains Inigo, unwilling to go into more detail at this particular moment. Crow hisses, and not for the first time, Inigo wonders if he was raised by khajiit.

“Skyrim is far too cruel, sometimes. It’s beauty masks the blood-soaked dirt we walk on.”

“There are some very kind people here, as well,” counters Inigo. “You just have to look _very_ hard to find them.”

“I have yet to meet one,” huffs Crow, and Inigo finds that difficult to believe.

“Oh, yes? What about your Lydia? Or your Lucia?”

“They are…” Crow hesitates. “I suppose they are good people. What makes a person good?”

“Kindness, for one. Empathy,” Inigo ponders as they walk, looking at the sky as though it will give him answers. “And perhaps also compassion. Everything else is cloaked in shades of grey.”

“Who told you all of that?” Crow asks, frowning. “Did you figure it out by yourself?”

“My mother and father taught me most of my perspective on life at a young age. It has been different actually experiencing it, but I have found that most of what they said holds true. They also taught me the value of love; not just for people, but for the world around us. It is that lesson that has pulled me back from the brink of despair many times.”

“Oh,” is all Crow says in response, and they march in silence for a moment. “What were your parents like?”

“Eh, I think that we should have that discussion another time, at a safer place,” Inigo informs him, and his mouth twists with impatience.

Then his eyes focus on something over Inigo’s shoulder, and he points.

“Look. That outcropping of rock,” he says, and Inigo turns to squint at where he’s pointing. There is a threadbare red banner fluttering in the wind, next to a large pile of boulders.

“Ah, I see,” confirms Inigo. “Is the entrance nearby?”

“That is the entrance. I raided this place a long while ago with Lydia. Back then, there was nothing here but a few bandits and an old book that I grabbed for a blacksmith’s wife. If you ever happen upon a man named Rustleif in Dawnstar, tell him my name and he’ll give you a discount.”

Crow leads Inigo around the outcropping to reveal small cave entrance leading underground. A Nordic skull is impaled on a wooden post in front of it.

“Homey,” comments Inigo dryly, and Crow whistles in response. They move into the cave with a professional sweep, making their way down the initial corridor and into the first room.

Two bandits barely make it to standing before Crow whips a dagger across their throats, and as they fall their blood spirals out to stain the walls red and slowly drip, silent as a cemetery. The scent of iron immediately cloys in the air, and Inigo presses his tongue against the roof of his mouth, stifling a low rumble that starts up deep in his chest.

The rest of the bandits in the small cave system are dealt with in much the same way, with Crow darting forward and opening the necks of everyone he sees before either Inigo or their opponents can ready their weapons for battle. Inigo grows more and more frustrated at the feeling of uselessness that sinks in his stomach as he idly follows Crow’s bloody trail, not having spent a single arrow.

Finally, in what appears to be the dining hall, a magic-user manages to blast Crow in the face with shards of ice just in time to avoid the dagger, then turns tail and practically trips over their own robes trying to get away.

Inigo immediately draws his bow and looses an arrow into the caster’s back, sending them tumbling to the ground in a truly pitiful display. He turns to proudly bare his teeth at Crow, who, uncaring, leaps up to grab the wooden ledge above him, hauling himself up into the other area.

Inigo follows suit, using a nearby table for leverage. They head through the far corridor, which twists and descends until finally reaching a pool of running water.

“Dead end,” decides Inigo, which is apparently some kind of challenge, because Crow shoves his way into the water and starts wrenching himself through the small tunnel, steel-plate armor scraping against the rock walls in the least stealthy dungeon crawl Inigo has ever witnessed.

After a brief moment of questioning all of his life decisions, Inigo dives in after him, eyes clenched against the icy water and claws digging into the silt below him as he intermittently chases pockets of air at the tunnel’s ceiling. They eventually tumble out through a waterfall, coughing and shivering.

Inigo hears the drawing of bows and swords, as well as the clicking ignition of magical fire, and he quickly moves towards Crow, intent on--

“Alik’r, hold!”

Dark faces and red cloth; glimmering steel swords that curve into an elegant point and reflect the orange firelight of nearby hostile mages; the smell of sweat, oak-barrel wine, parchment, and oil; a man standing slightly taller than the rest, leaning forward with a grinning face to scour the dragonborn with his eyes.

Inigo takes it all in with darting eyes and razor-sharp senses, ready for a battle that might actually present a challenge to his dear friend, if not by skill then by sheer numbers.

“You’ve proven your strength, dragonborn. Let’s avoid any more bloodshed,” croons the leader, clearly posturing. “I think you and I have some things to talk about.”

Crow’s hand twitches towards one of the axes at his hips, and Inigo’s whole body trembles with the effort of keeping still, hyper aware of everyone’s body language.

“Stay your hand, warrior,” the man snaps, still smiling but suddenly tense around the eyes. His soldiers are watching him in the same way that Inigo watches Crow; stretched taut like a bowstring. “It’s no secret why you’re here. Let us talk a moment, and no one else needs to die.”

He takes a step forward, and Crow’s eyes widen, burning red like dying coals.

“I think we can all profit from the situation in which we find ourselves. My men will not attack you, if you will keep from drawing your weapons.” He winks at Inigo, who lets a ragged growl burst from his lips like a curse. The soldiers shift uneasily.

“You must be Kematu,” Crow finally says, voice low and strained. He briefly glances at Inigo, then relaxes his stance, and in response Inigo’s feels the white-hot coil in his stomach loosen a bit. His tail whips back and forth. “Why are you after Im-- Saadia?”

“She sold the city out to the Aldmeri Dominion. Were it not for her betrayal, Taneth could have held its ground in the war. The other noble houses discovered her betrayal, and she fled. They want her brought back alive.”

A few of the soldiers mumble under their breaths, short phrases and likely curses in Yoku that make Crow’s eyes narrow.

“The resistance against the Dominion is alive and well in Hammerfell, and they want justice,” Kematu continues. “I’ve heard many tales of the hatred you hold in your heart for the Dominion. We share that in common, dragonborn.”

“She sent me here to kill you,” Crow mutters, light fading from his eyes.

“Of course, and… what is it she’s calling herself these days? Shazra? Saadia? One of those, correct?” Kematu levels him with a sympathetic look. “Did she appeal to your sense of honor? Your greed? A more… base need, perhaps? It doesn’t matter. No doubt she’s convinced you that she’s the victim.”

Crow stands silently for a long moment. Then his head tilts slightly and his red eyes, glowing once more, slowly move to meet Inigo’s, a single eyebrow raised. A question.

Inigo stares back, mind racing. The Alik’r had been banished from Whiterun by annoyed guards, which meant they had likely been causing trouble for the people there with their search. What’s more, he doesn’t know enough about the war in Hammerfell and the tyranny of the Aldmeri Dominion for Kematu’s words to impassion him in the way that Crow has been affected.

From what he could tell, Iman had been scared. Maybe she’d made a politically-charged mistake that had led to the deaths of hundreds of people at Taneth, or maybe she was telling the truth and the House of Suda was being persecuted by the Dominion for their opposition.

He grits his teeth and shakes his head. This is not a decision he can make.

Crow nods, then turns back to Kematu.

“We were sent to kill you,” he repeats, and the whole room bursts into flames.


	6. Old Hroldan Inn

They move west towards The Reach, where the air is slightly cooler and the wind shifts with a spirit livelier than the adjacent holds. Inigo lets his tongue poke out from between his lips, like he has sometimes seen the smaller variety of cats do, so that the intriguing and variable scents that permeate the west are enriched to his senses as they pass him by.

Crow sometimes catches him doing this, and gives him a wide-eyed look that Inigo is almost certain is his version of smiling.

When night falls, Crow hardly ever takes note until Inigo gives in to his weariness and suggests that they tuck themselves under some nearby rock outcropping or tree to wait out the night. He takes the entire night’s watch, refusing to heed Inigo’s protest, except for every three or so days when he shoots sparks instead of flames and has to sleep off the mana fatigue.

On those nights he finds a small space where he can surround himself with three walls and have Inigo sit in as the fourth, guarded on all sides and promised that the soonest instant of danger will have him shaken awake.

On the other nights he watches over Inigo like a bastion, upright and scanning the horizon, and occasionally shaking him awake when his breathing is too shallow to be sure of.

“It’s tense in The Reach,” Inigo hears him muttering one morning as he wakes. “The air is so kind and sweet as to lure you into a false sense of security. To mask the realization that the hills have eyes.”

“The what?” rasps Inigo, pushing his blankets aside and stretching his entire body with several pops, unsheathing his claws to drag against the loamy earth as his arms extend. His morning routine.

Crow jerks his head up from where it had been pressed against his knees. There is dirt smeared all over his face and much of his body, remnants of the day before when a sabre cat had charged up over the hills and tackled him into one of the large muddy swaths of earth that they had been so carefully avoiding.

“The hills…” he repeats, then sighs. “The forsworn like it in The Reach. They like to find travelers and watch them as they go, peeking out from the foliage. Occasionally, they see fit to attack.”

“...Are there any inns or taverns nearby?” Inigo eventually asks, pulling himself up into a sitting position. “Somewhere y-- we might feel a little safer?”

Crow frowns.

“There’s… the Old Hrolden Inn, over that way,” he falters. “I’ve only been there once, and left without spending the night. I cannot guarantee its safety for you.”

“Let’s go there,” Inigo decides, standing. Crow looks up at him warily. “Don’t give me that look! You need a bath, my friend, and--”

He sniffs under his arm and recoils.

“-- so do I.”

===

“Dragonborn! Welcome back,” exclaims the woodchopper as they approach the inn. Sweat streams down off of all three of them, as the day had suddenly turned stifling. “Here to stay this time?”

“Just one night, Leontius,” Crow responds quietly. He’s in a better mood now, and Inigo likes to think that it’s a direct result of the whistling and dancing he’d done as they made their way along the path.

“Who’s your friend, here?” asks Leontius, wiggling his mustache. Inigo likes him instantly. “The name is Leontius Salvius, nice t’ meet ya. The dragonborn here delivered a letter to me a couple years ago. Can you imagine-- the legend himself, wasting his time on such a little thing?”

“I am Inigo,” he purrs giddily, tail curling. He clasps his hands behind his back and grins at Leontius, who is in his humble opinion quite dashing in the midday sun. “I am his current companion.”

Leontius’ large eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.

“Is that so?” he guffaws, leaning over to punch Crow in the shoulder. “You rascal! Didn’t know you had it in you!”

“That’s-- he’s--” is Crow’s stuttered response, and Inigo rushes to repair the damage he’s done.

“Ah, no,” he apologizes. “Just traveling companion, not--”

“Oh.” Leontius deflates, looking slightly disappointed. Crow grabs Inigo by the wrist roughly and yanks the tavern door open, pulling them through. Inigo is delighted to see that his ears are tinged pink, even as his expression remains vaguely pissed off.

The door slams shut behind them and the innkeeper looks up from where she’s wiping down the bar.

“Ah, a couple visitors find shelter from The Reach’s sun,” she comments, voice smooth and kind. “This inn has hundreds of years of history; it is the stone that the empire’s history is built on. You’ll be looking to rent Tiber Septim’s room, I take it?”

“Sure,” Crow replies distractedly, gaze darting around and assessing the room as he drags Inigo forward. “We’ll be needing baths first, though.”

She eyes where his hand is still locked firmly around Inigo’s wrist, tight enough that he can’t help wincing a little in pain. His ears flatten and his tail drops low as he tries to look unassuming. She smiles easily at Crow, but her eyes are cold.

“...That’ll be the room over there.” She gestures to a door near the bar. “Two extra gold per bath. Including the room, which I assume you’ll be sharing, that’ll be fourteen gold total.”

“Yes, fine.” Crow finally lets go to reach into his bag of holding, and Inigo sighs in relief. “Here’s the gold. Inigo, I’m going to go check out the bath room and the room we’ll be staying in. Stay with the innkeeper until I’ve determined that the rooms are safe.”

He nods at the woman, seemingly trusting her for whatever reason, then marches off. She waits until he’s out of earshot before turning to Inigo, worrying her lower lip between her teeth.

“Are you alright? Do you need me to send for the guards?”

“No, no,” Inigo reassures her, tail whipping back and forth in embarrassment. “He was just distracted, that’s all. I’m a big khajiit, I can take care of myself, see?”

He parts his lips to show off gleaming rows of sharp teeth. She scrunches up her nose, not fully convinced.

“If you’re sure… my name is Eydis, what’s your name?”

“Inigo the Brave,” he tells her, standing tall again. “Currently traveling with the dragonborn and having a very interesting time of things.”

“Oh! Oh, wait-- that’s him?” she queries, leaning over the bar to stare off in the direction Crow had gone. “White hair, red eyes; guess I should have realized. But I expected someone-- I don’t know, taller?”

Inigo laughs, embarrassment already forgotten.

“His short fuse more than makes up for it. Just a couple of weeks ago, we were caught up in a bandit den-- well, not really bandits; they called themselves the Alik’r--”

“It’s safe,” says a deep voice behind him, and he spins around. Crow is frowning at him. “The rooms are safe.”

Eydis nods, pulling back and brushing strands of blond hair out of her eyes.

“Should be. Don’t know what you expected to find in there,” she says, shrugging. Her voice is smooth once more, and Inigo realizes that she had categorized him as someone she didn’t need to worry about keeping up appearances with. He grins, flattered.

“Traps, maybe. Can’t be too sure,” mutters Crow, gesturing for Inigo to follow him as he makes his way back into the bath room. Inigo waves goodbye, ears perking up as she waves back, bemused.

“She liked you,” Crow says, kicking the door shut. “So did Leontius. How did you manage to do that?”

“What, be friendly?” Inigo huffs. “It usually involves smiling.”

“Ah. A hopeless venture, then.”

Inigo snorts and wanders over to the large round wooden bathtub. It has a few runes on the side to produce and heat water, so that it doesn’t have to be filled from the well. There must be a magic user somewhere in the inn’s staff.

“Can you fill this, or should we bring someone in?” he asks.

“It’s a simple spell.”

Crow places his hand against the runes and closes his eyes. The basin slowly begins to fill with steaming water. As he concentrates, Inigo looks around the room, taking in the assortment of soaps and towels on the far wall, as well as the scruffy plant that sits in the corner for decoration.

When the basin is full, Crow opens his eyes and stands.

“Will you be going first, or should I? Whoever goes, the other should stand by the door.”

Inigo rolls his eyes.

“You can go first, my friend. I will stand guard.”

Crow nods and starts pulling off his muddy clothing. First comes the bag of holding, gently set on the bench. Then the dwarven axes, orcish daggers, falmer bow and arrows, glass sword, crossbow--

“Little bit of everything, hmmm?”

Crow ignores him. Off come the ebony gauntlets, daedric boots, leather trousers and large fur cape; and finally the steel-plate chest piece is unclasped and placed on top of the pile, leaving Crow in only his tattered, muddy shirt and smallclothes.

He looks to be half the size he was before doffing his armor, and Inigo would find it hilarious if he wasn’t worried about how thin the dragonborn is. He’s strong-- corded muscles pulling taught with his every movement-- but Inigo’s sharp eyes do not miss the telltale signs of starvation and torture.

Scars, both ropy and thin, pink and white; long and jagged, small and round. The way his ribs protrude, his hips taper, his shoulders point. Inigo can count each vertebrae of his spine as he pulls his shirt off over his head. Not good.

He runs his tongue over his teeth, ears pressed flat. His tail lies still. Not good.

Crow stops before pulling off his smallclothes; looks back to see Inigo staring. His ears go pink and he looks frustrated, red eyes darting off to the side.

“Don’t watch me,” he grumbles. Inigo obediently turns away slightly, no longer in a playful mood. There is a splash as Crow climbs into the water, hissing. Inigo tosses him a bar of soap, the nicest-smelling one he can find.

Dragonborn. Before he’d been to Skyrim, he’d had no reason to know such tales. Now, in the land filled with whispers of the legend, his time in prison had deprived him of most of the stories.

Not to say that he is completely oblivious. Sometimes the guards would talk about the civil war and politics, and as their conversations wound down and the mead reddened their cheeks, they would always end up speaking of him.

Son of Dragons. He’d consigned himself to General Tullius in the war, thoughtlessly, heartlessly-- or so the guards had proclaimed, loyal to the Stormcloaks’ vision. Despite that, they spoke of him as a hero; laid praise on his every action against the dragons and made excuses for his every slight against the Stormcloaks.

Brainwashed! They’d shouted. Tricked! Swindled!

Crow is too smart to be swindled. Inigo knows this, because he is good at seeing through a person’s bullshit to what is true. But he also doesn’t really understand war and politics, or more specifically the effect they have on people.

There are a lot of things that Crow is now, after fighting a war and saving the world, that he was not when Inigo knew him seven years ago. He is paranoid, to a debilitating degree. He is easily angered. Vicious. Powerful.

He is too thin. Inigo’s mind keeps circling back to it, because to him it is something personal. In his early life he had spent a lot of nights hungry, preferring to spend his gold on skooma rather than food, but more than that he remembers the children.

Elsweyr is not a wealthy country, and it never has been. Torn to pieces by, once again, war and politics, and eventually split in half by the Aldmeri Dominion and heavily regulated. It is less the causes that Inigo has knowledge of than the effects.

Children starving and screaming in the streets, fighting and stealing and eventually, in the worst, most stricken lands, going mad and eating each other. Inigo’s parents, so kind despite everything they had been through, tried to shield him from the horror of it all, but it was everywhere, and the children were so thin they were skeletal--

“Inigo? _Kaaz_!”

Inigo jerks back to press against the door, coming back to himself to see Crow standing naked in front of him, streaming water and reaching out, face twisted with frustration and concern.

“Uh-- uhh-- w-w-what--”

He hasn’t stammered like this since he was a child.

Crow watches, hands hovering and eyes searching. Eventually, he steps away and grabs a towel.

“I’m-- finished bathing,” he says lamely. “It’s your turn.”

“Right,” hisses Inigo. “Sorry.”

===

Inigo dives into the large double bed, wrapping himself in furs and burying his face into the pillows. There is another smaller bed in the corner that Crow ignores. He picks up the book sitting on the end table.

“The Battle of Sancre Tor,” he reads. “Oh, right. We got the Tiber Septim room.”

He sits on the end table facing Inigo, his feet ending up on the bed next to Inigo’s face. Their things are currently being washed, so they’re both dressed in the nightclothes provided by the inn. He opens the book to begin reading.

“Aren’t the chairs in the corner good enough for you?” Inigo grumbles.

Crow looks down to where he’s piled all of the furs on top of himself.

“Isn’t your own fur good enough for you?”

“I like it under here!”

“And I like it up here,” retorts Crow. “Now be quiet so I can read.”


	7. Into Markarth

They wake to a scream. Inigo leaps out of bed and grabs his sword, rushing to the door with every intention of throwing it open and confronting whatever danger there might be. Inversely, Crow hurls himself at the door to hold it closed, blocking Inigo’s exit with the intention of keeping them safe.

“What-- you--!”

“Shut up!” Crow stage-whispers, seething. His glowing red eyes stare Inigo down.

Inigo hisses at him. Outside the door they hear Eydis’ voice.

“Who are you? A ghost?!”

Crow turns and presses his ear against the door.

“Has she gone mad?” he wonders. Inigo shoves him out of the way and opens the door, stepping out to see Eydis standing in the middle of the inn with a shocked look on her face. She sees Inigo.

“I-- Mara have mercy, that gave me a fright!” she gasps, wobbling over to him. He catches her in his arms and lowers her onto a nearby chair. “There’s a ghost! Wandering around my inn like it owns the place!”

Crow steps through the doorway, arms crossed.

“A ghost,” he says flatly. His lip curls.

“Yes,” she insists. “I’ve heard stories that Old Hroldan was haunted, but no one’s seen a ghost like this since The Great War. He’s from the battle, I just know it! He’s one of Tiber Septim’s soldiers… back from the dead.”

Inigo is about to speak when he sees Crow’s expression go slack, gazing at a point over Inigo’s shoulder. A voice rings out, eery and cacophonous.

“Hjalti? Is that you? I’ve been waiting…”

Inigo spins around to see a spectral blue form, almost bright enough to blind, walking towards Crow, arms outstretched. He draws his sword but waits to strike, unsure of how to interpret Crow’s reaction.

He’s standing with his arms loose at his sides, mouth slightly open and eyes still glowing, staring at the apparition. It’s an expression Inigo has never seen on him before.

“Hjalti? Who are you talking about?” Crow whispers. 

Eydis backs away until she’s pressed against the bar, terrified. A small child pokes his head out of one of the rooms to see what’s going on, and she frantically gestures for him to get back into his room. The door slams shut.

“You promised me, Hjalti,” the spirit hums, placing its palms upon Crow’s face and tilting his head up reverently. “You promised that when we sacked Hroldan, you would make me your sworn brother.”

Trembling, Crow’s hands move upward to grasp the spirit’s elbows. Tears drip down his face as they lock gazes, and he tries to pull his head away to no avail.

“And so I’ve waited,” the spirit continues, brushing the tears off of his cheeks. “Even after the enemies’ arrows dug into my chest and their hammers crushed my bones. I’ve waited. Give me your sword, Hjalti, that we might become brothers as you promised.”

“I-- I will find the sword and bring it to you,” Crow answers wetly. The spirit releases him and Inigo is there to catch him as he falls.

===

They gather up their belongings and leave the inn.

“I will most definitely _not_ find that sword and bring it to him,” spits Crow, marching furiously as they set back on the road to Markarth. “He was manipulating my emotions through magic to make me weak to suggestion. I do not take kindly to people who try to-- to _charm_ me!”

“It was a dirty thing to do,” Inigo agrees easily.

The sun rises behind them in the east, sending streaks of oranges and pinks into the sky and casting a gentle morning warmth that promises another hot day in the middle of the autumn season.

Despite this, Crow pulls his fur cloak tight around his shoulders, and having seen his emaciated form, Inigo can only imagine how he must feel the cold. He reaches into his pack and pulls out a ration bar.

“Here, my friend,” he offers. “You look hungry.”

Crow glares at the bar with the utmost suspicion, not taking it. Inigo wiggles it temptingly, and his eyes narrow.

“That is yours,” he says slowly, warily. “You will go hungry if you give away your food.”

“I have enough for the both of us,” Inigo insists. “The last time I saw you eat was two days ago when you ate an apple off of the ground. Are you even carrying rations?”

Crow grabs the bar and hisses at him. Inigo laughs, sidling closer and letting his tail brush against Crow’s shoulder playfully. He jolts and pushes Inigo away with one hand, shoving the entire ration bar into his mouth with the other in a wholly disgusting display.

===

“Here, you must try some!” Inigo appeals. They are at one of the farms on the outskirts of Markarth, quaint with its stone houses and ever-present mountain backing, and Rogatus Salvius offers potatoes and blackberries in exchange for news of his son.

The few remaining days of travel had been highlighted with Inigo’s persistent efforts to feed the dragonborn, darting around to pick up nuts and chase down rabbits. After the first couple of times, Crow stops protesting.

He clearly realizes that something is going on, but he either doesn’t care enough or doesn’t think it’s important enough to confront Inigo about. In fact, he mostly just looks tired. He even lets Inigo put blackberries in his pockets as he speaks with Rogatus.

“Leontius is fine,” he murmurs. “He is looking stronger than ever.”

“Did he say if he’s thinking about visiting?” asks Rogatus, hopeful.

“No, he--” Crow pinches the bridge of his nose as Inigo sneaks a potato into his bag of holding. “He likes it over there. Maybe you should be the one to visit him.”

“And leave the farm?” he protests, aghast. “That’s financial suicide!”

“Can’t Vigdis tend the farm while you’re gone?”

“Yes, but half the hands means twice the work. We’re both getting older, and I would never do that to her.”

“Hire a farmhand?”

“The going rates are ridiculous; and knowing both my luck and Markarth, I’d end up with some criminal gray mer immigrant that steals half of what he harvests!”

At this, Crow spins around and marches off towards the stone steps leading into the city proper, Inigo close behind with another handful of berries.

“I’ve had enough of berries,” he snaps, knocking Inigo’s hand away.

“That’s fair,” says Inigo. He’d been gathering edible juniper berries all day yesterday, sniffing out the sweet from the sour from the poisonous with his capable nose. He’d only brought the sweetest of them to Crow.

The entrance into the city is a grand one. Inigo’s jaw drops as his vision is filled with huge stone arches and clean white cascading waterfalls; precarious walkways and bridges and ledges; houses and establishments that are practically one with the Druadach Mountains.

His nose twitches in the clean and wet air, picking up the smells of people packed together, meat and fish cooking outside, perfumes being sold somewhere upwind. His ears pick up the ringing of hammers at the distant and seemingly precariously suspended blacksmithy, the haggling of the merchants, the scraping of stone against stone, the constant rushing of water.

Crow watches him with wide eyes and a considering set to his jaw, fur cloak ruffling with the caresses of the west wind.

“The City of Stone… Nchuand-Zel,” he says. “Here we are in the Riverside half, where the industry and businesses do their work, and below our feet is the slum, The Warrens.”

He nudges Inigo so that they are not standing in the middle of the entrance, blocking the path. Then he points.

“On the way to the keep is the Hall of the Dead. The Understone Keep and the Temple of Dibella are the lower level of Dryside, which is the other half of the city. The upper level is the Market square, residential homes, and local treasury.”

He turns back to face Inigo.

“Some of the people here still worship Hircine; remnants of traditions founded long ago,” he informs, eyes shifting to scan the faces of the crowd. “And… many of them still remember when the Forsworn conquered this city, something like thirty years ago. The situation is tense between the Nords and the Reachmen.”

“How do you know all of this, my friend?” Inigo asks, impressed and pleased that Crow is sharing this with him. Crow’s eyes dart back to his.

“I read a lot,” he falters, seemingly embarrassed about the habit. “But more than that, as dragonborn I was immersed in politics wherever I went. Mainly the issues with the White-Gold Concordat and the Aldmeri Dominion; their influence and investment in the Civil War.”

He hesitates, eyes becoming distant. Inigo has seen this look before, on the aging faces of those who had fought in The Great War of The Fourth Era in Elsweyr. It is a soldier’s Remembering Face, and his father had always warned him to be careful when he saw someone with it.

“...I was ordered to rendezvous with Legate Emmanuel Admand, and adjacently, Jarl Igmund. I needed to keep The Reach as an imperial influence; not only is it extremely beneficial to the war, it also has a major cultural significance to the citizens of Skyrim, as it used to be the ruling center of power for her people in the Second Era.

“The Forsworn practically foam at the mouths at the thought that Ulfric might take this place. He beat them down from their mighty hold on the city during The Incident, and if he conquers The Reach they know he will go to great lengths to wipe them out as a show of good faith to the Nords.

“The Jarl’s beliefs clash frequently with those of Thongvor Silver-Blood, but one thing that they happen to agree upon--”

He is interrupted by a blood-curdling scream, and Inigo is almost grateful for the distraction from Crow’s worrying spiel.

Citizens flee from a nearby market stand where a Nord woman lies dead, blood pooling from a stab wound in her back. The guards swarm onto the culprit and drive their many swords into him like a pincushion, but not before he can triumphantly shout--

“I die for my people!”

Crow walks over as the onlookers swarm around like flies once the danger is gone, pressing forward and yelling in their native tongues. One of them kicks the murderer’s body.

“Enough!” shouts one of the guards. “Back off, citizens, or I’ll have you all arrested for contaminating the crime scene!”

They curse and spit at him, but move back somewhat, wary of his gleaming sword.

Crow pushes through the crowd.

“Dragonborn!” someone shouts, and all of the guards drop everything they’re holding to salute him. The one who seems to be in charge steps forward.

“Lieutenant Colonel! I am Praefect Altius, head of the lower Riverside squadron. I can assure you that I have all of this under control.”

Altius pulls off his helmet and tucks it under his arm, revealing thick, curly black hair and a handsome redguard face, enhanced by light amber eyes. Inigo’s tail curls and Crow’s jaw tenses, ears going pink.

“What exactly is going on here?” he interrogates, vowels clipped and consonants clear, all traces of the slight Vvardenfell accent that Inigo had grown used to completely gone. “Has everything gone to such ruin in my absence that the people now kill each other unhindered in the streets?”

He sounds just like a perfect Imperial Soldier of the Empire. Cryrodiilic and bland.

“No, sir,” reassures Altius. “This was not a common occurrence. The perpetrator shouted something about the Forsworn before attacking Margret, but the guard have ensured that there are no Forsworn here.”

“Apparently,” is Crow’s dry response as he moves to stand over the woman’s body.

“Will you be staying the night at the barracks, sir? I can have your room prepared for you at the top of the tower,” Altius offers. The other guards’ faces look hopeful, even as they are still locked in a salute.

“At ease, Quaestors,” Crow remembers to say. They drop their arms, relieved. “I will not be staying at the tower.”

“Where, then? The Silver-Blood Inn, where Ulfric’s name still lingers in every corner?” Altius contends, placing a careful hand on his shoulder. “Surely you realize how unsafe that is?”

Crow grits his teeth and shakes off the hand.

“Surely you don’t make a habit of challenging your superior officers, Sergeant,” he hisses. Inigo’s ears flick back and forth as he follows the argument, amused.

Altius pulls away and stands at attention once more, hands clasped behind his back and face carefully blank. The other guards follow suit.

“No, sir.”

Crow turns to Inigo, looking quite the sight hunched over the dead body and surrounded by chastised soldiers. Altius seems to notice him for the first time, eyebrows raised. Inigo preens.

“What do you think? Should we stay in the dwemer tower or the inn?”

“The tower,” Inigo replies immediately, heart racing when Altius smiles at him. “Yes, definitely the tower.”

Crow frowns, watching his curling tail. Inigo fights back a sharp-toothed grin.

“Are you sure? It will be very different from where we usually stay.”

“We will be sure to accommodate both you and your companion’s needs, Lieutenant Colonel,” Altius helpfully interjects.

“...Fine.”


	8. Old Tower, Bad Vibes

They let Altius lead them to the tower, the other guards trailing behind and gossiping amongst themselves. Partway there, a blond breton man with tribal markings on his face nervously sidles up to walk beside Crow. Altius steps over to shoo him away, but Crow waves him off irritably when the stranger starts speaking Nedic.

They have a short conversation in low tones as they walk, and the nearly dead language they converse in is pleasing to Inigo’s ears, despite being able to understand none of it. Lots of rasping, clicking, rumbling, and rolling tongues. When it ends the man hands Crow a folded piece of paper and scurries away.

“What was that?” inquires Altius, wary. “How do you know the old language that Reachmen sometimes use?”

Crow tucks the paper beneath his breastplate without opening it and shrugs.

“I know a lot of languages. I pick them up easily, and have more access to them than most due to the amount that I… read.”

He trails off, but Altius looks impressed. Inigo tries not to get jealous and fails miserably. He picks up his pace so he can walk between them, tail swaying. Crow looks grateful for the excuse to break Altius’ gaze and end the conversation, so at least there’s that.

They eventually arrive at the dwemer tower. Two guards standing outside the doors salute Crow as they approach, then pull open the dwarven metal doors with no small amount of flair. 

“ _Arte et marte_ , Legate Crow,” their voices echo as he walks by.

Altius gestures to the spiral staircase leading down underground.

“As you know, the training rooms and low-rank sleeping quarters are down those stairs,” he reports. “The dining hall is one level up, and the kitchens above that. Quarters in the stories further up are distributed by the ranks of the active officers, and of course yours is third from the top-- below Legate Rikke and General Tullius’s rooms, for when they happen to stop by.”

“Are they scheduled to do so any time soon?” Crow probes as they ascend, boots cracking sharply on the stone steps.

Inigo likes the dark red banners and decorations, and how they work with the firelight to make a cozy atmosphere in an otherwise professional setting. He is less fond of the derisive looks the descending soldiers give him as he passes, as though he is the mud they scrape off their empire-standard greaves. 

“Not until the fifteenth of the next month,” answers Altius. Inigo notes how Crow’s shoulders relax a fraction of an inch. They pause at the entrance to the mess hall. “It is past noon. Have you had lunch yet?”

“No,” says Inigo. “We are both very hungry.”

The hall is filled with rows and rows of polished wooden tables and chairs, uniform and spaced efficiently. Many of the tables are filled with laughing soldiers, who scarf down meat, bread, and cheese hurriedly like someone is going to take it from them.

When Crow enters the room the volume audibly increases as everyone takes note. Altius waves a hand, and a gaggle of recruits trip over each other trying to clear a table for them. Crow’s hands are fists at his sides, and he walks mechanically over to sit down.

While they wait for the harried cooks to bring them food, Altius clasps his hands on the table and smiles at Crow.

“Do I have your permission to speak with your companion, Lieutenant Colonel?”

“Yes,” Crow says dully, hands in his lap and head bowed. Inigo presses his tail against the side of his thigh reassuringly.

“Some of my men are partial to rumors and tales from the other reaches, and they claim that the Lieutenant Colonel has traveled alone for about three years now,” Altius says, finally addressing Inigo. “You really must be something special, to have captured his interest.”

“Well, I am Inigo the Brave,” purrs Inigo, “who fells large spiders and draugr and recently, a dragon. _Very_ skilled with a bow--”

“And a sword,” Crow adds quietly, then starts when their eyes are pulled back to him. “One-handed, uh, swordsmanship. And keeping watch.”

“A very talented man, then,” Altius notes with a laugh. Inigo preens, smile too wide to keep his sharp teeth from showing. Altius looks a little alarmed, but then smiles in return, showing off his own perfectly square white teeth. Excellent. “How did you get the coloring on your fur, if you don’t mind my asking? Blue is not something I’ve ever seen before.”

“Khajiit fur color is from the positions of the moons and planets when they are born. My twin brother, born with only a very small time difference, had normal fur. I was born at a very special, very rare alignment,” Inigo explains, ears flattening nervously.

“That’s incredible,” breathes Altius, and Inigo’s tail curls where it is pressed against Crow’s thigh.

The cooks finally arrive, placing silver platters with large piles of steaming food on the table between them. Mashed potatoes, honeyed ham, buttered beans, boiled apples covered in cinnamon--

Inigo’s stomach growls loudly and he growls back, as is his habit. Altius laughs raucously, leaning back and shaking his head. They both shovel food onto their plates, a little bit of everything, and Inigo makes sure to fill Crow’s plate as well.

Crow gives him an irritated look, then reluctantly begins to eat, albeit much slower than the rest of them. Inigo continues to chat with Altius, making sure to keep their topics of conversation generally meaningless and light.

===

Crow’s chambers are quite large, compared to the other areas of the tower. Nearly every part of it is draped in some variation of deep red fabric; silks, linens, cottons, rugs. Gold accents in the candelabras, embroidery, bedposts, hinges-- whoever designed the room did so with a vision.

The bed is enormous and fluffier than any other Inigo has encountered. He leaps onto it with a happy purr, burying his face in the duvet. Crow hasn’t slept in three days, but Inigo can tell by the way he’s holding himself that tonight won’t be the night he gives in.

“Must you do that with every nice bed we find? What if you break one?” he asks, wandering over to one of the many bookshelves in the room. He runs his fingers over the spines, reverent, then catches himself and withdraws his hand, embarrassed.

“There is no shame in liking to read, my friend,” Inigo says gently, and it’s something he’s been meaning to say for a while. Crow side-eyes him, seemingly gauging whether or not this is a conversation he’s willing to have.

“Isn’t it?” he eventually retorts, stepping away from the bookshelf and gesturing towards it with a sweeping hand. “You don’t consider this a waste of time, given the weight of my responsibilities? You don’t find it to be a laughably placid activity, when lesser men than me spend their free time honorably fighting and drinking and lovemaking? What use is there to a book, when the aftereffects of the civil war still plague Skyrim’s people; when the near-brush with the end of the world, staved off only by my honorable actions and not _reading_ , still shakes their faith in the stability of our place in this world?”

His Vvardenfell accent creeps back into his impassioned voice as he speaks, arcanic flames licking their way up his arms from his fists to surround him like a shroud. His eyes glow and he seethes, anger twisting his face and beneath that, anguish. Inigo swallows, claws digging into the bedspread and tail lying still.

“It is a cruel thing to expect a man to always be fighting or working,” he offers quietly. “And I would say that to spend your free time drinking away your senses is much less respectable than reading.”

Some of the flames die and Crow looks off to the side, jaw clenched.

“Who told you this?” Inigo asks, suddenly irritated. Little Crow had never cared about such things. “They are an idiot and I would like to yell at them.”

Crow shakes his head, glow fading. He looks up at the ceiling and takes a deep breath, muttering something in a language Inigo doesn’t recognize.

Inigo starts taking off his armor.

“Perhaps if we remove our armor and settle down a bit, you will be more comfortable.”

Crow hesitantly follows suit. Bag of holding, dwarven axes, orcish daggers--

“Do you really need so many weapons? You haven’t even used most of them in the time we’ve been together.”

Inigo finishes with his own armor and walks over to help Crow with his. He ignores the flinching and starts unclasping things, speeding up the process. Eventually they both stand in their shirts and smallclothes.

“See? Much better,” Inigo consoles, sitting down back on the bed. He pats the spot next to him, compelling Crow to sit down.

He does, and in his hands is the piece of paper that the Reachman had handed him earlier. He turns it over, seemingly reluctant to open it. Inigo’s tail lifts curiously.

“His name was Eltrys,” says Crow. “He saw the attack in the square, and it worried him. He gave me this, claiming that I had dropped it, but it is not mine. I can account for all of my things.”

“There must be a need for secrecy, then. A mystery.”

“It could be… or a curse that will activate when I open the letter.”

Inigo sighs.

“Let me open it, then.”

“What-- no. That’s worse. I won’t have you cursed because of me.”

“Then open it yourself!”

“No.”

Inigo goes to snatch the paper away, but Crow lurches back and grips it tight, causing it to tear open on his claws. They both stare at it. There is only one line of writing at the top, in Nedic.

“Well, it’s open now.”

Crow frowns.

“He wants me to meet him at the Shrine of Talos. Alone.”

“Isn’t Talos worship banned everywhere, now that the war is over?” asks Inigo.

“Yes, but the shrine in Markarth is a large building made of stone. They couldn’t exactly burn it down, so instead they locked it up tight. Some of the graffiti that angry citizens make on the sides of the building is astonishingly revolting. They have to send someone at the end of each week to clean it off with magic,” Crow scowls. Then his expression shifts weirdly, uncomfortable. “Their religion has been taken from them by force. Many would say that it’s understandable, how they’ve reacted.”

“I agree,” Inigo assures him, and he relaxes somewhat. “Racial oppression on the one side, religious oppression on the other. It can’t have been an easy choice to make.”

“It’s not a choice I should have made at all,” mutters Crow. “If I could go back in time and keep myself out of the war…”

There’s a moment of silence. Inigo picks up the torn piece of paper from where it had been dropped.

“Are you going to go meet this man?”

“I’ll head over there tonight,” decides Crow, “but not alone as he’s requested. It would be unspeakably stupid to leave you here with these imperials, regardless of how fond of each other you and the Sergeant seem to be.”

“I have no idea what you speak of,” Inigo hisses, tail curling. Crow rolls his eyes.

“I’m not stupid. Your flirting was annoyingly obvious, and Praefect Altius is admittedly quite… well, quite…”

His ears go pink and he shakes his head, standing.

“Don’t go sneaking off to his chambers,” he says instead, and Inigo growls. “The Imperials can be just as racist as the Stormcloaks, and I will be incredibly angry if I hear that you’ve died because some nordic bastard caught you slinking through the halls and reacted explosively.”

“Hmmm, this is true,” Inigo grumbles. Crow pats his head sympathetically, flattening his ears briefly. “I will go with you to the shrine, then.”

“Good.”


	9. Conspiracy Theory

Crow pulls out two small vials of a clear, viscous liquid at a point soon after midnight. He hands one to Inigo, who takes it carefully between his claws, inspecting it.

“Invisibility potion,” he says shortly. “Nirnroot, ice wraith teeth, and the wings of one of those pale butterflies that flutter around at night. I made it myself because I don’t trust the alchemy shops.”

“Of course,” soothes Inigo. “It sounds like a difficult potion to make.”

“If I ever hear another nirnroot’s scream I’ll slit my own throat.”

They down the concoction. It’s an assault on Inigo’s senses, and they have to wait until he’s finished coughing and spluttering to leave. They creep down the many flights of stairs and out the doors unhindered, albeit confusing the guards when the doors slowly swing open on their own.

Inigo cannot see Crow, and only locates him through the heady scent he always carries, of sword oil and ash and a slightly reptilian aftereffect. It is ridiculous to think that being the dragonborn may have altered his scent, but it is the only explanation he can think of.

Eventually they arrive at the doors of the Shrine of Talos, hidden in the shadows of an overpass. Large silver chains lie on the ground next to it, broken.

“Very subtle,” notes the dry whisper up ahead with no small amount of sarcasm. Inigo grins, tail lashing back and forth silently in the warm night air.

They creep into the building, careful to keep the large doors from ringing out as they open and close. There is a dark corridor leading to a statue of Talos, illuminated by candles.

Crow’s scent draws closer, and a hand presses another small glass vial into Inigo’s grasp. He drinks it without questioning, and watches as he slides back into visibility from the tips of his boots to the points of his ears.

Crow does the same, then stands and walks without ceremony down the hall, looking quite self-important in his large fur cloak and confident stride. Inigo slinks close behind him, bow in hand with a feathered ebony arrow resting loosely on the string, ready to draw.

Eltrys stands off to the left of the statue, nervously chewing his fingernails. When he sees Crow, he stands, caught between moving forward to greet him and lingering in the relative safety of the shadows.

His eyes catch on Inigo, half-obscured by the fall of Crow’s cloak, cat eyes shining in the dark like molten gold.

“My note said to come alone,” he whispers, worried.

“Consider me alone, then,” Crow negotiates, slowly stepping over to the other side of the statue, where his well-polished armor gleams in the candlelight. Inigo follows his movement, swathed in the shadow he casts.

“I wish I did not have to draw you into Markarth’s problems, but after that attack in the market, I’m running out of time,” is the fervent reply. “You’re an outsider. You’re dangerous-looking. You’ll do.”

“‘I’ll do’? What the hell are you talking about?”

“You want answers? Well, so do I. So does everyone else in this city,” Eltrys hisses, drawing away so that he can barely be seen. “A man goes crazy in the market. Everyone knows he’s a Forsworn agent. Guards do nothing. Nothing but clean up the mess.”

“I’ve spoken with them. They seem to have deluded themselves into thinking that they’ve driven out the Forsworn presence in Markarth. I suppose that’s easier than addressing the fact that there’s a whole criminal system thriving right under their noses, bolder every hour that they stand idly by.”

“This has been going on for years. All I’ve been able to find is murder and blood. I need help. Please; you find out why that woman was attacked, who’s behind Weylin and the Forsworn, and I’ll pay you for any information you bring me.”

“Weylin?”

“The attacker at the market.”

“I see.”

Crow sighs, weary, and turns a little so that his lips are near one of Inigo’s ears.

“Worth our time?” he breathes, almost imperceptible. Inigo’s ear twitches, brushing against Crow’s face. Yet again, the decision falls to him. As it had with the Alik’r when his inability to choose led to a ruthless display of power and a fighting frenzy.

Blood boiling and flesh bubbling with arcane heat. Kematu behind several shields against magic that did nothing to prevent Inigo’s arrow from driving through his eye and into his brain. It is a terrible memory, and the worst part of it is that Inigo still doesn’t know if they’d done the right thing.

Choices made while traveling alongside the dragonborn hold an inconceivable weight. Something that Inigo is quickly becoming familiar with.

“Perhaps,” he answers, just as quietly. “It sounds like this is a problem that is costing many people their lives. It could be just as dangerous to uncover it as it is to leave it be.”

Crow leans away, satisfied.

“Tell me what you know about Margret,” he interrogates, smoothing a hand down the fur of his cloak. Eltrys leans forward, encouraged.

“She’s not from Markarth. The air about her screamed ‘outsider’. Visitors to the city usually stay at the Silver-Blood Inn-- is that where you’re staying?”

“No. Who was Weylin? Where did he live? The fact that you know his name implies a familiarity,” suggests Crow.

“He was one of the smelter workers. I used to have a job down there myself, casting silver ingots. We did more working than talking, so I never really knew much about him, other than the fact that he lives in the Warrens, like all of the other workers.”

“You’ve looked into these murders? And found nothing?”

Eltrys falters, uncomfortable. Crow’s eyes narrow.

“Yes. It all started when I was a boy. My father owned one of the mines. Something that’s rare for anyone who isn’t a Nord,” he divulges. “He was killed. Guards said it was just a madman, but everyone knew the murderer was a member of the Forsworn. I’ve been trying to find out why ever since. I’ve gotten nowhere, and then… I got married. I have a child of my own on the way.”

“Risky business,” Crow says slowly, and Inigo isn’t sure whether he’s referring to the investigation or the child.

“I swore I was just going to give up, for my child’s sake, but it’s like my father’s ghost is haunting me, begging me to solve this,” he agonizes. Crow holds up a hand, stopping him before he loses himself completely.

“We’ll look into it,” he decides, and Eltrys nearly collapses with the weight of his relief. “Tomorrow.”

He turns and walks towards the exit without another word. Inigo hesitates for a moment.

“Be careful who you talk to,” Eltrys warns, eyes watery. Inigo nods awkwardly and follows after Crow.

===

The next morning, Inigo wakes to someone shaking his shoulder. He grabs their wrist and flips them, claws extending and teeth bared before he even opens his eyes. Old habits from his mercenary days.

When the bleary morning fog clears from his vision, he realizes the mistake he’s made. The scent of bacon and eggs, drifting up the stairwell and into the room. Gentle sunlight filtered through the thin and drifting gold curtains, casting the room in an ethereal glow. Crow, wide-eyed and more shocked than afraid, pressed still beneath his claws. The smell of ash--

“Ah, shit,” Inigo hisses, leaping away quickly. Crow sits up, hand moving to his throat. “I am sorry, my friend. Unfortunate reflexes.”

Crow has yet to put his armor on. He sits unspeaking for a moment, and he looks younger, almost. Small in the giant bed.

“That’s…” he eventually rasps, then stops. Swallows. “...fine.”

“Not fine,” Inigo insists, suddenly very worried. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Crow stands, shaking his head as if to clear it of flies.

“I would have done the same thing if you had grabbed me,” he huffs. “Except you would have ended up with a knife in your chest. This is the better of the two scenarios.”

“Yes,” Inigo agrees, relieved to see that he hasn’t done any permanent damage. “That is why I always wake you by poking you with a stick.”

Crow winces at the mere mention of the strategy. Inigo snickers.

“Today we’ll be going to investigate the Silver-Blood Inn, where Margret was staying,” he grumbles, walking over to where his armor is piled and starting to strap things back on. “I have a feeling she’s not just an unimportant side-effect of the Forsworn’s plotting.”

===

“Come on in! The Silver-Blood Inn has plenty of strong drink and--”

The innkeeper cuts himself off as he looks up, realizing who he’s talking to. The bar’s patrons don’t visibly react, a sign of men and women who’ve learned the ins and outs of living in a dangerous city, but Inigo can practically taste their interest in the air, and the few lucky ones who happened to be sitting facing the entrance peer over the edges of their drinks with dark eyes.

Crow doesn’t bother with small talk.

“A woman named Margret was killed at the market yesterday around noon. Where was she staying?”

“...Rented the nicest room we had for a whole month,” the innkeeper answers reluctantly, setting down the glass he was cleaning.

Crow places his hands on the bar and leans into the man’s space, slowly. The innkeeper grits his teeth and closes his eyes, unwilling to pull away and show weakness. Off in a corner, Inigo sees a teenage girl grab a man’s hand, worry clouding both of their faces. They look too similar to be anything other than siblings, and Inigo would hazard a guess that they’re the innkeeper’s children.

“Give me the key, Kleppr,” murmurs Crow, “and I won’t have you dragged to the stocks again for slandering the Imperial Legion. You’re getting older, and I’m not sure you would survive it this time.”

Kleppr’s hand clench and a nerve in his jaw jumps, but he reaches under the bar and carefully retrieves a large golden key. Crow snatches it from him and pulls back, surveying the room with cold eyes. Those who were looking quickly drop their gaze.

Inigo follows him off to the left, where he inserts the key in a polished set of brass doors. They open easily enough, and once they’re in the room with the door closed behind them, Crow stops moving and puts his face in his hands.

“ _Zu’u Ni Wo Zu Ont Lost_ ,” he whispers. “ _Zu’u Ni Wo Zu Ont Lost_.”

Inigo gently places a hand on his shoulder, unsure of how to help. They stand there together for a moment, Inigo’s tail low enough to touch the ground and Crow mumbling the same phrase over and over under his breath.

Eventually, he pulls away, running a hand over his face and avoiding eye contact. He touches one of the stone shelves, sliding his fingers along the rough surface past lavender, a book, a basket.

He steps over to the end table in the corner. There’s a hefty purse of gold and a fine china plate resting on its surface, both of which he ignores. He pulls open one of the drawers, and almost turns away, disinterested, when something catches his eye.

He pulls out a leather journal, briefly holding it up to inspect it in the torchlight before opening it to the most recent entry. His reads quickly, and whatever he sees there makes him stride over and toss the journal into the fireplace, igniting it with a hissed ‘ _Yol_ ’.

He turns to Inigo, eyes narrow and mouth curled downward like there’s a bitter taste on his tongue. 

“She was a spy for the Imperial Legion. Working for General Tullius, specifically, to somehow acquire the deed to Cidhna Mine. An underground prison in Markarth notorious for being both cruel and inescapable,” he relays with a severe gravity. “She met with Thonar Silver-Blood while undercover, and then realized she was being followed.”

“So it was arranged by the Silver-Blood family?” questions Inigo. Crow closes his eyes to think, frowning.

“...Probably,” he eventually says. “It’s delusional to believe that the violence between the Stormcloaks and Imperials is over now that the war has ended, but there’s more to this if the Forsworn are involved. They hate the Legion, but would take them any day over the Stormcloaks, which means they have some other greater goal that matters more to them.”

Inigo hisses nervously, tail whipping around. Crow opens his eyes.

“General Tullius made a mistake,” he snarls, crossing his arms defensively. “This woman was clearly not cut out for this investigation if she was writing vital information down where anyone could access it. Worse still, he brought in someone from the outside. Margret knew nothing of how this city works; the culture and implications and depth to every wrong move she made.”

“And now they know they’re being investigated,” concludes Inigo, feeling sick.

The door flies open, startling both of them into jumping back and drawing their swords.

“Weapons away!” shouts the intruder, one of three guards crowding the entrance. They are not soldiers of the legion, but rather guards hired by the city itself and proudly displaying Markarth’s white emblem on their emerald green sashes. “We were told by the owner of this establishment that you’ve been coercing your way into citizens’ rooms.”

Crow slowly sheathes his glass sword and straightens. Inigo keeps himself armed, not a part of whatever power play is happening.

“Do you happen to know who I am?” Crow asks. The other guards shift in place, gripping their weapons tighter, but the one in front is unaffected.

“Indeed we do, Dragonborn,” he leers. “And we know that you’ve been snooping around. Asking questions. If you don’t stop, you’re going to find out what happens to troublemakers here.”

The other guards mumble their agreement, emboldened again.

“I’m not trying to cause trouble,” Crow blatantly lies, eyelids drooping.

“You’re finding it,” spits the guard. “That’s bad enough. So this is your last warning. We keep the peace here, so stay out of our business.”

The guards step forward to clear a space for them to leave. Crow curls a finger in Inigo’s direction, beckoning for him to follow along as he marches out of the inn. On their way out, Kleppr triumphantly spits something in Nordic, and it’s clear that this was his doing to some degree.

They all spill out into the streets and disperse, throwing threatening glances over their shoulders as they go. Crow immediately turns and begins moving north with purposeful strides, towards Dryside.

“Where are we going?” asks Inigo.

“We’re going to have a friendly conversation with Thonar fucking Silver-Blood,” Crow barks, expression fierce. “Unlike Margret, I am not cowed by his threats and displays of power. Removing me from this issue will not be nearly so easy as having me stabbed in the marketplace.”


	10. Silver Blood Spilled

Crow throws open the doors of the treasury with a crash, causing the woman behind the counter to look up, startled. Recognition lights in her eyes.

“Um, I’m sorry,” she starts, hand drifting to rest on a nearby letter opener, “but I don’t think I can help you unless you’re a patron of the treasury.”

“I’m here to speak with Thonar.” He says the man’s name like a curse, red eyes starting to glow. “He’s expecting me.”

“Is he now?” she asks with a laugh, leaning forward. “He explicitly requested not to be disturbed due to important business he’s attending to, so that seems a little unlikely.”

“I wasn’t asking, Rhiada,” he says lowly, dropping his hands to the axes at his hips. Her eyes narrow. Then she suddenly huffs out a laugh and shakes her head, glancing at Inigo.

“Well, then,” she decides, shuffling her records. “I’m sorry to keep you. Head right in.”

Crow glares at her suspiciously. She just raises her eyebrows, gesturing towards a corridor to the left.

“He’s right in there.”

Crow hesitantly walks forward, stepping lightly as though he expects to be caught in a trap. When they’re halfway down the hall, the door swings open, Thonar Silver-Blood himself making his way out carrying a sheath of parchment.

His eyes dart up to see Crow, poised on the toes of his boots in the middle of his hallway. Crow slowly lowers himself as they lock eyes, a weird energy in the air. Inigo almost feels invisible.

“Legate Crow,” sighs Thonar. “My brother is not going to be happy that you’re here.”

“Oh, shut up,” Crow hisses. Inigo blinks at the frank way he addresses the nobleman. They regard each other with a lingering familiarity. “You and I both know that you hold the power in this family. Thongvor is a political presence, but you conduct the business around here. Everything that Silver-Blood controls, you control.”

“This is true,” he confirms, then pauses, tilting his head consideringly. There’s a cruel and restless glint in his eyes that makes Inigo’s fur stand on end. “I don’t remember you having an accent.”

Crow flushes, thrown off. He had dropped the Cyrodiilic act when speaking with Eltrys, so that the reachman might feel more comfortable around him; and now, in his anger, he’s forgotten to filter himself.

“You sound like a dunmer peasant,” Thonar realizes, delighted. “How convenient that Tullius never mentioned that his precious dragonborn isn’t even from Skyrim. I suppose it makes sense, considering the favoritism you seem to show for animals.”

He jerks his chin at Inigo, grinning. Crow fumes, slamming his hand against the stone wall in a burst of energy.

“I’m here to talk about Margret,” he chokes out around his rage, and Thonar rolls his eyes.

“The imperial agent? Not much one for espionage, that woman. Though I suppose Tullius has never really been known for his subtlety. How many dogs is the empire going to send after me?”

He leans forward a little, gaze raking over Crow’s trembling form.

“This is _my_ business. _My_ city. You empire-lovers should learn to stay out of it.”

Crow draws a breath, fire in his eyes, but distantly they hear a rasping voice--

“For the forsworn!”

Thanor’s eyes widen and he shoves past Crow just as the screaming starts.

“By the gods! Betrid?!”

They follow close behind to see the scene: an old woman standing over the body of one of the Silver-Bloods, dagger dripping. Thanor, instantly caught and held back with a knife at his throat by an old man, yelling for his wife.

“Nana Ildene? Donnel?” Crow falters, shocked. The old woman looks up at him, eyes widening as she realizes who he is. There is a brief moment where no one moves, the room completely silent.

Ildene drops the dagger and whips her hand forward, a spear of razor-sharp arcanic ice sliding from her fingertips towards Crow’s chest. He spins out of the way as Thanor takes the opportunity to drive an elbow into Donnel’s gut and duck away from the knife.

Rhiada tosses her letter opener in the air and catches it blade-down, leaping forward and stabbing at Ildene’s neck as Crow pulls up from a crouch and charges.

Inigo drives his sword towards Donnel, but the old man easily parries with a sword of his own, locking their blades together in a battle of wills.

Ildene jerks away from the letter opener, narrowly avoiding a split jugular, but the distraction is enough for Crow to tackle her to the ground and wrap his burning hands around her throat, fire bursting out from his body like a popping balloon.

Donnel throws Inigo back with a sudden jolt of strength, then lunges. Inigo dodges. Slashes. Donnel ducks, swings upward. Inigo blocks just in the nick of time, sliding the steel away and driving his elbow into Donnel’s face.

He reels back and Thanor bashes him over the head with a small ornamental statue bust. He hits the ground, unmoving. Crow steps away from Ildene’s body. Her face has melted away, unrecognizable.

Panting, Rhiada tosses aside the letter opener, looking pissed off.

“What the fuck was that, Thanor?”

He stares at where his dead wife’s dress turns red, stain becoming bigger and bigger as the blood pools. He drops the statue.

“Damn Madanach,” he gasps. “Damn that Forsworn prick!”

He turns to Crow with a jerky movement, something chaotic stirring in his expression. Inigo shifts his grip on his sword, prepared to pounce if the need arises.

“You want to know what the Forsworn really are? They’re my _puppets_! I have their _king_ rotting in Cidhna Mine! He was supposed to keep them under control!”

“You have _Madanach_ in the fucking _mine_?!” Crow bellows, getting louder with every word until his voice is one of cacophonous judgment. He’s still wreathed in flame. “Are you _insane_? Do you have any idea the kind of power he wields?”

“I place no weight on the providence of The Fates,” Thanor snarls. “When the Forsworn uprising was crushed during The Incident, I had Madanach brought to me. He was a wild animal, but a useful one. I offered him a stay from execution if he used his influence to deal with any annoyance that came up. Competitors, agents, idiots--”

“You’re not nearly as smart as you think you are,” Crow interjects, seething, “if you think that your greed sparing him the executioner’s blade isn’t exactly the kind of providence that The Fates provide. And letting him communicate with his agents? How could you do something so _foolish_?”

Thanor laughs suddenly, brokenly, and shakes his head.

“I suppose you got what you wanted, didn’t you, you damn hound. This is your fault, for poking your nose where it didn’t belong and stirring things up. You and Madanach both. Animals. I’ll see you rot to death in Cidhna Mine for this, just like him.”

“I’d like to see you try,” sneers Crow.

===

“With all due respect, sir, you need to get out of Markarth,” says Altius seriously.

Crow stops dead in his tracks where he was pacing the perimeter of Altius’ office, dragging his fingers along the walls.

Inigo is curled up in the corner of a nearby red velvet couch, where the arm and back meet. He’s sipping snowberry tea, which Altius made for them after hearing of the attack at the Treasury, insisting that it helps with shock. Inigo was in no position to refuse those puppy-dog eyes.

“Why? I’m so close to resolving this; I know who’s orchestrating the murders and why, I just need to figure out how to fix the damage Thanor has done.”

“Yes, but consider the following: Margret, like you, was also an outsider, employed by the imperial legion, and investigating this case. And she also antagonized the Silver-Bloods! They seem to have a significant sway over the Markarth City Guard, which, despite working closely with them, the Legion has no real control over.”

Altius stands from his desk in a passion, slamming his hands on its surface and scattering papers.

“You’re going to get yourself killed!”

“Sit down, Sergeant,” barks Crow, and Altius drops back into his chair at once. “You think that I cannot defend myself? I’m the _dragonborn_ , and fire bends to my will as easily as--”

He snaps his fingers, and a few measly sparks drift out of his thumb. He stares at his own hand, surprised, and Altius shoves his head into the crook of his arm on his desk.

“Markarth is doomed,” he whines, voice muffled.

“Th-- this is fine,” stutters Crow, snapping a couple more times with the same results. “I just need to sleep off the mana fatigue, that’s all. I used a lot of energy when we were at the Treasury.”

“Yes.” Altius looks up, encouraged. “Stay in the tower and sleep. If you won’t leave the city, you should at least be somewhere that the Legion can protect you.”

Crow crosses his arms, displeased.

“You think I trust your men? I don’t. Not even with cleaning my boots.”

“Oooookay!” Inigo interrupts, jumping up from the couch and grabbing Crow by the elbow. “Thank you for your time, Altius, lovely as always, but I think we’ll be heading to the dragonborn’s chambers now to get that well-deserved rest, yes?”

Crow hisses and shakes his head, but ultimately lets himself be dragged away. Inigo glances back through the closing door as they leave, and catches a glimpse of Altius banging his head against his desk repeatedly.

When they arrive at Crow’s chambers he shoves Inigo away and storms over to the bed, falling forward to lie on it rigidly, face-down. Inigo snorts.

“Do you need me to draw the curtains, my friend? It is still morning, after all.”

“Sure. Whatever you think will work,” he grumbles into the duvet. Inigo gently pulls the golden curtains shut, careful not to tear them with his claws.

Then he pulls a book about smithing swords from one of Crow’s shelves and settles down in an armchair to read. About every twenty minutes, he’s distracted as Crow curses and repositions himself, twisting in all sorts of uncomfortable-looking ways.

“Perhaps you should take your armor off?” suggests Inigo. Crow opens his eyes and looks briefly shocked to see his companion with a book, which Inigo knows better than to take personally.

“No, I… definitely won’t sleep if I feel unsafe,” he mutters, glancing away with clear embarrassment.

“...Do you need to be in one of the corners?” Inigo asks carefully, recalling how he had slept during their travels. Crow flushes, ears going pink.

“Maybe.”

They reposition, with Crow tucked into the corner farthest from the door and Inigo sitting in front of him to guard his exposed side. He does appear to be far more relaxed, sighing and closing his eyes.

Still, half an hour later his face twists with frustration and he buries his head in his knees, mumbling,

“Try reading to me.”

So Inigo speaks of smithing techniques and smelting faux pas; the durability of different materials and the symbolism behind what shape the hilt is in; the lethality of the curves of certain blades and the cultures they are used in.

He also gives each blacksmith a funny voice, because it makes the corner of Crow’s mouth twitch a little, like he might smile. Which is admittedly a triumph, but not really conducive to falling asleep.

“This isn’t working,” Crow eventually says. “I’m too worked up from the fight earlier and everything that’s been happening. Especially with the involvement of Madanach.”

“Is he really so important?” asks Inigo, curious. “You said that he was Fate-Touched, but Thanor didn’t seem to believe you.”

“Thanor is stupid,” he answers plainly. “The Forsworn dance with old magics, the kind that no one but them knows how to do; and even they don’t fully understand it. They work with hagravens and trade their hearts for power, and live unsheltered in the wilds to be spiritually entwined with the natural forces of the world around them.

“Madanach is their leader, or as many like to call him, The King in Rags. He has an unstoppable influence over them, and because of this his soul is pulled taught with the threads of Fate. Such a condition can mean so many things. I am just as caught up in the weave of destiny as he is-- likely more so-- and when people like us clash, the world changes to a degree.”

“Then maybe we should leave the city, like Altius says.” Inigo frowns, worrying his bottom lip with his sharp teeth. “Things don’t seem to be changing for the better.”

“No,” Crow says. He looks weighed down, like his exhaustion is trying to pull him through the wooden flooring. “Madanach cannot be left in that mine. The king of the Forsworn should not be locked in a city, where he is unable to commune with the natural world. It stacks the cards; unbalances our path. It needs to stabilize.”

They are interrupted by a knock on the door, three raps in quick succession. Crow stands, pushing past Inigo to go open the door. Inigo can’t see who’s on the other side from his position, but he can hear--

“Got something I’m supposed to deliver. Your hands only.”

Crow huffs oddly, the closest Inigo’s ever heard him get to laughing.

“Must you say that every time, Elodin?”

“It’s standard for the courier service, sir. They practically beat it into us during training.”

“Alright, alright. What do you have for me this time?”

“Another letter from your friend in Windhelm, sir, and a gift. He said to tell you he happened to find it around the same time one of the Nords’ cargo shipments went missing, and that he hopes you enjoy it very much.”

He hands Crow a letter with a blue ribbon tied around it and a bottle of vintage wine.

“Also, a squirrely looking fellow with markings on his face stopped me on my way here and told me to give you this note. Not the creepiest guy that’s ever made me run a letter to you, but I’d be careful, all the same. Have a good day, sir.”

“And you as well, Elodin. Stay on the well-trodden path.”

“You know I never will, sir. Goodbye.”

The door closes. Crow sits on the bed with his mail, gesturing for Inigo to join him.

“Let’s see,” he drawls, opening the long letter as Inigo lies flat on his back on the bed next to him, head near his thigh so he can see his face. “Ah, my friend is annoyed that I haven’t been sending him any return letters, even though I explicitly told him that I think my mail is being read by my enemies.”

Inigo snickers, twisting a little so that his tail isn’t trapped beneath him.

“He also heard that I’ve found someone to travel with, after all this time. He wants to know what you look like.”

“Dashingly handsome, of course.”

“You can tell him yourself the next time I drop by Windhelm,” Crow retorts, rolling his eyes. “He knows that I don’t drink alcohol, of course, so the wine is for you. He wants to be your friend so that he can talk about me behind my back with you. Why would he tell me that?”

He stares at the letter with a bemused look on his face. Inigo grabs the bottle of wine and inspects it, holding it above his head to watch it roll in the torchlight, rich with color. He reads the golden label.

Juniper Berry Wine made and aged in oak barrels in a large vineyard a little ways away from Skingrad in Cyrodiil, in the year 3E 222. Owned by the Surilie Brothers, a high end company known for its quality alcohols.

 _Third Era alcohol_.

“Your friend and I are now the very best friends,” Inigo gushes, “and I will not hesitate to tell him whatever he wants to know about you.”

“Traitor,” sniffs Crow, tossing the letter aside. “And another note from Eltrys.”

He opens it without hesitation this time, which Inigo is very proud of him for.

“He wants us to meet with him again at the shrine, as soon as possible. He says he’s found out about someone else who’s involved in the conspiracy.”

“Other than the Silver-Bloods?”

“Must be.” Crow stands, adjusting his cloak. “We might as well head over there now, see what has him so worked up. We can use the invisibility potions like last time, so that Altius doesn’t lecture us on the way out.”

Inigo frowns.

“Isn’t that dangerous when you still don’t have your magic back?”

“I still have my Voice. If anything goes south, I’ll just blast him with a Word.”

===

The shrine is darker than last time, a large portion of the candles recently snuffed out and sending wisps of smoke and the scent of burning beeswax into the air. Crow frowns, and gestures for Inigo to stay behind him.

They move down the corridor slowly, but the click of Crow’s daedric boots against the stone floor does away with any notion of stealth. Eltrys is waiting for them at the bottom, whole body trembling as he clutches at a wrinkled piece of parchment and stares into Crow’s eyes beseechingly.

“...What’s gone wrong?” asks Crow softly. Inigo shifts his stance. There’s something off about the smell of the room, but the root of it is masked by the cloying aroma put off by the candles. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” gasps Eltrys. “I was looking through Weylin’s room in the Warrens. I found a note telling him to do what he did in the marketplace, signed by ‘N’. Further investigation led to the discovery that the ‘N’ stood for Nepos the Nose.”

“The gossip?” Crow inquires, confused. “I know he did business with the Silver-Bloods, but that doesn’t… what exactly do you mean by ‘further investigation’? How did you figure this out?”

“The answers are all here,” is the desperate reply, and a shaking hand extends the wrinkled parchment. Crow takes it, slowly, carefully, but doesn’t open it.

“...What are you waiting for?”

Eltrys twists his hands around his wrists, eyes darting around the room. Inigo follows his gaze, but sees nothing through the smoke and darkness.

“My friend, he is a bit paranoid about opening letters,” rasps Inigo from behind Crow’s shoulder, trying to get a read on the situation. Eltrys doesn’t react to his words, staring into Crow’s eyes feverishly.

“Hush, Inigo,” Crow says absently, an odd look on his face. “There is something happening here that I don’t…”

He trails off, looking down at the crumpled, folded paper.

“Please open it,” Eltrys whispers. “They’re holding my wife hostage, and our unborn daughter…”

Crow opens it, and immediately the red sigil painted onto its center begins to glow, light spiraling out of the markings to wrap around his throat, choking him. He falls to his knees, paper slipping from his grasp as he reaches up to pull at the writhing light, chest heaving.

Inigo whips around with his sword as seven Markarth guards emerge from the darkness. One quickly stoops down and grabs Crow around the waist, hauling him away from Inigo’s line of sight as he dodges axes and flails.

Eltrys is run through by another of them, killed before he can make a sound. Blood sprays onto the statue of Talos as Inigo decapitates the guard nearest to him and then drives his sword into the next one’s stomach.

Suddenly, white-hot pain blossoms on the back of his skull, and his whole world is turned to darkness.


	11. No One Escapes Cidhna Mine

Inigo wakes some indeterminate amount of time later, slung over the side of a horse with his arms bound behind his back and a blindfold blocking his vision. His head aches, and he reels for a moment with a sickening nausea.

“Gods, I hope he doesn’t vomit on my horse.”

There are quiet voices nearby, somewhere in front of him. Two men, each bearing a rough Nordic accent. If he listens carefully, he can hear the sound of a river rushing nearby, large enough that it might be the Karth River, some distance away from the tributary that runs through Markarth. He is surrounded by the night calls of many insects and amphibians, and maybe an owl, which indicates that at least nine hours have passed since he was knocked unconscious.

Inigo switches his focus from his ears to his nose. Sweat, blood, horse-- Gods, the horse is pungent. Poor thing probably hasn’t had a bath in a while. His captors aren’t ones for attentive maintenance, then, which is good for Inigo’s chances of escaping. He also smells food in one of the nearby saddlebags; jerky, berries, a little cheese, some sausage.

He feels… ill, but not extremely hungry, which suggests that it probably hasn’t been more than a day since his capture. The rope binding his wrists is rough, and the knots are extremely well-made. He feels at them with his claws. They seem to be bowline knots, which implies that at least one of his captors is or used to be a sailor. The rope itself is made of some hardy fiber that he won’t be able to quickly sever; it would take him at least a day or two of scratching.

Despite the general rugged nature of everything else, the blindfold seems to be cool and smooth-- likely silk. They’ve layered it several times over and covered nearly half his face, ensuring that not even the faintest light can make its way through.

“I think he’s awake,” suggests one of the voices softly.

“Then why hasn’t he said anything? We didn’t gag him.”

They’re walking ahead of the horse, leading it along.

“Hey, khaj! Are you awake?”

“Urrrgh,” Inigo gurgles. He vomits on the horse.

===

Crow wakes in a prison cell with walls of jagged rock. It’s dark, illuminated only by a distant flickering torchlight. He hears the sound of metal on stone, metal on metal, whips cracking in the air. He can hazard a guess at where he is.

He sits up. He is unbound, which is an interesting show of confidence on his captors’ part, but--

His hand darts up to feel the weight around his neck, made of some solid material that he can’t immediately identify. It’s jagged and uneven, like everything else in the mine, but it’s tight enough around his throat that it can’t be classed as anything other than a collar. He can barely swallow beneath it, and his breathing is slightly restricted.

Worse still, his fingers are practically buzzing where they touch it, communing with the many spells and rituals it is bound with. He can’t identify the nature of the magic, except that it cuts off his own, rendering him unable to even attempt to manipulate the undoubtedly trap-riddled hex locks.

It also stifles his voice, and more importantly, his Voice. He hasn’t been this utterly powerless since the last time he was in a prison cell, when the collar he wore didn’t even need to be magic to keep him in line.

Those memories are more poignant here, harder to ignore. They spill out of their boxes like snakes, drawn to the similarities between the past and the present. His armor is gone, and he feels naked without it, though they’ve dressed him with some loose clothing that roughly resembles the canvas bags he’s seen corn stored in.

They haven’t given him any shoes.

He shivers. It’s too cold for him, underground. He thinks of his cloak, then thinks of Inigo, with his warm blue fur. Inigo, who might be dead or worse because he hadn’t been able to keep himself in check like Altius had begged him to. It’s a miracle he hasn’t been removed from the line of command yet, with the way he seems to consistently ruin everything.

He won’t die here, though. This he is sure of, with an innate certainty that he is sure rests heavy in Madanach’s heart in just the same way. Which means that he has to work on a method of escape. He wonders if one day he’ll know his graveyard when he sees it, in the same way that he knows that this place isn’t it.

Footsteps draw closer, the stride of someone who who knows that their approach is heard and draws it out for the sake of suspense. An orc woman in steel armor comes into view, a mace at her hip and a snarl on her face.

“Alright, prisoner, eyes front. The name is Urzoga gra-Shugurz; I’m your gods-damned manager. You’re in Cidhna Mine now, and you’re expected to earn your keep. There’s no lazing about in a cell; here, you work. You’ll mine until you start throwing up silver bars. You got it?”

She doesn’t know who he is, which he’d thought was impossible for anyone from Markarth, as he’d spent a large portion of the war stationed here. Living underground clearly hasn’t done her any favors.

“That was a yes or no question, prisoner; you don’t need your fucking voice to answer it.”

He grits his teeth but nods slowly. He’s spent the last five years forcing himself to unlearn the subservience that Darsho and Tyron trained into him, but it seems he’s going to have to draw on old lessons if he wants to make it through this ordeal.

“Get a move on, then,” she snaps, throwing the cell door open.

There’s a glint in her eye that suggests she can easily detect the harsh struggle between his pride and the knowledge that acting out now won’t end in his favor. She relishes it; her exaggerated act belies a very real sadism.

He has to walk by her to leave. There are several ways to do this, but only one that is viable.

His hands clasp behind his back, and all at once he remembers how hard it had been to learn to let them swing at his sides with confidence. His head bows, gaze cast to the ground. It had been just as difficult to coach himself to lift his chin and unapologetically look people in the eye.

He makes his way out of the cell and onto the mine’s scaffolding, bare feet sliding against the wood. His gait is reduced to a quiet, careful thing that doesn’t take up too much space, and he instantly misses the loud, intimidating stride that he had practiced and perfected during the war.

Each correction he makes is tied to its own painful lecture from Darsho, who’d cared quite a lot about appearances, but then--

“Thank you for your time,” he whispers, and that’s all Tyron.

The righteous fury simmering in his gut, however, is a gift from Lydia.

===

“We are not untying him.”

“What, so we’re just going to feed him from our hands? Have you seen how sharp his teeth are? I’ve already lost a finger to a khaj, I’m not going to make the same mistake twice.”

“If we untie him, he’ll kill us! What’s a finger to your life?”

“You do it, then!”

“What? No!”

Inigo sighs. They’ve been bickering for the better part of the last hour, and he’s mostly ignoring them as he tries to keep track of their location while blind. They’ve been following the Karth River, which means they’re headed north.

“I know Silver-Blood said to sell him, but who’s gonna want to buy a blue khajiit? Isn’t that a little too weird?”

“Don’t be stupid, Rothvir; that’s exactly why they’re going to want him. Rich people love rare things.”

“How do you know he’s rare? Maybe in Elsweyr they’re nearly all blue.”

“Don’t you think we’d have seen another one by now, then? All of the ones here come from there, after all.”

“Maybe the blue ones aren’t allowed to leave. Maybe they’re sacred to their weird religion, or whatever.”

“Don’t they just worship khajiit versions of the divines?”

“I heard that too. They don’t have a kitty Talos, though.”

Inigo determines that it’s ostensibly possible to kill himself via bashing his head against the saddle, but in the end he decides that the horse has had enough abuse for one day.

===

Crow sidles down the ramp into a large, cavernous area with a burning campfire at its center. A middle-aged reachman sits near it, staring into the flames distantly. Across the room, a tall orc prisoner stands shirtless in front of an iron gate, face painted white with tribal markings that depict a skull.

He steps carefully through the dirt, trying to avoid the sharp rocks and pieces of glass mixed in with the sand and soil. The reachman looks up as he approaches, gaze skittering across his body and catching on the collar. Crow has no idea what it looks like, but he doubts its appearance is normal.

“Uraccen,” the other prisoner offers, voice smooth. “You?”

Crow touches a hand to the collar, then kneels down to trace letters into the dirt.

“C-R-O-W,” Uraccen reads aloud as he writes. “Alright, birdie. What are you in for?”

Crow thinks for a moment, not particularly inclined to divulge details.

 _Too Curious_ , he eventually writes.

“Oh, that’s a shame,” comments Uraccen with no small amount of sympathy. “I’ll bet there’s not a violent bone in you. Isn’t that right, birdie?

Crow nods. Bad instincts. He can work with that.

“I left my daughter Uaile behind, when I was taken. Did you leave anyone behind?”

The man’s voice softens on the name, giving it a melodic cadence. Oo-ah-leh. The sound of a native Reach name, the kind that brings trouble from the Nords.

Crow nods, thinking of Inigo and his mother hen act. He thinks it might be something like family, but he has no real point of reference. His finger hovers over the dirt, caught between _Brother-Mother-Ally_ \--

“It’s alright,” Uraccen laughs. “You don’t have to tell me.”

Crow lowers his finger, frustrated. A puzzle to think over at a more opportune moment. Uraccen moves to sit closer.

“My advice?” he murmurs, magnanimous. “Spend your time at the pickaxe and get out. You don’t want to end up getting a shiv in the guts over a bottle of skooma, or… well. You must know how you look; how that makes people like us feel.”

Crow does know, unfortunately. He usually tries not to think about it.

 _Where is Madanach_? He writes the name deeply, to convey importance. Uraccen’s eyes widen.

“If you’re asking, that means you’re the new lifer,” he realizes. “Tough luck, birdie. Those guards sold you out. There’s no working your way through this one."

Crow frowns, gesturing at the writing to reiterate.

“No one talks to Madanach, I’m afraid. Not without getting past Borkul the Beast.”

He jerks a thumb at the skull-faced orc standing nearby. When he’s mentioned, he looks up and smirks, flexing his muscles in a proud display.

“He’s Madanach’s guard. Big, even for an orc. Heard he ripped a man’s arm off and beat him to death with it. He’s old-fashioned like that,” Uraccen jokes.

The orc grins ferociously. Crow ignores him, for the moment.

_Guards?_

“They come in here once a month to clean out the bodies, grab any ore we’ve mined, and beat down the troublemakers. That’s the only time when we get food, too. And if there’s not enough ore mined up, we don’t get any.”

Crow feels a brief flash of irritation towards Inigo for getting him used to eating every day. His stomach already feels painfully empty.

He stands, brushing off his pants, and approaches Borkul.

“You’re the new meat, then,” the orc purrs. “So soft, so tender…”

His voice drops to a low growl, too quiet for Uraccen to hear.

“What was it like killing your first one, huh?”

This one is more perceptive than the reachman. Brutish and intelligent make a dangerous combination, but Crow supposes he shouldn’t expect anything less from someone close to Madanach.

Crow has to kneel to answer him, which Borkul seems to thoroughly enjoy.

 _Exciting_ , he writes, and to a degree it’s true. Excitement was indeed one of the emotions present at the time, alongside fear, horror, and determination.

“A true killer like me,” Borkul notes as Crow stands. “The Gods put us here to fill their halls with souls. You’ll fit in fine down here.”

Crow tilts his head towards the iron gate, questioning.

“You want to talk to the King in Rags? Fine. But first you’ve gotta pay the toll.”

Despite his best efforts, Crow can’t keep the corner of his mouth from twisting downward in disgust.

“Not that kind of toll,” Borkul snorts, “though I certainly wouldn’t object. How ‘bout you get me a shiv? Not that I need one, but it’s nice to have in case I need to do some ‘shaving’. Heh.”

Crow crosses his arms. Borkul takes pity on him.

“That shitstain Grisvar’s been known to make a few. You can probably get one from him.”

Urzoga yells down from the scaffolding, leaning over the wooden railing and gesturing with her mace.

“Hey! Get to work or I’ll have to make you, new blood!”

Crow grabs a pickaxe from a nearby mound of dirt as Uraccen snickers. Urzoga leans away, satisfied.

She’s right about one thing, at least. There’s work to be done.


	12. Equal Exchange

There are a lot of winding, dusty tunnels in the mine that one could easily get lost in. Luckily, Grisvar is located relatively close by, mining a vein of silver with a rhythm and a look in his eyes that suggests his mind is elsewhere.

A reachman sits drinking nearby, clearly fed up with working. Crow almost dismisses him, but something in the curve of his nose, the shape of his eyes--

 _Bothela_ , he traces into the dirt.

The man’s eyes widen, and he sits up, setting his bottle aside.

“Yes, I’m Odvan, her grandson,” he exclaims. “Did she send you to rescue me?”

Crow shakes his head awkwardly, and the light in Odvan’s eyes fades in disappointment.

“Oh, well… you know her?”

In a way. Four years ago, he had ducked into her apothecary shop while trying to avoid being spotted by Legate Emmanuel Admand. At the time, he had only been a Praefect, and the Legate hadn’t been fond of his attitude.

He’d obeyed orders, and respected the chain of command, but he hadn’t done so quietly. Half of his field reports were filled with strategy suggestions and remarks on morale, and when he was given a stupid order, he pointed it out and made sure to record the consequences when he was forced to follow through regardless.

As a result, none of his superior officers had been very fond of him. Other than General Tullius, who had a large amount of faith in him that mostly stemmed from news of the bloody swaths he cut through the battlefields he was sent to. So when Legate Admand had spotted him across the tributary and the fires of an oncoming lecture lit in his eyes, Crow had practically thrown himself into the nearest building, which happened to be The Hag’s Cure.

He and Bothela had bonded over insomnia and a general disdain for the happenings of the world. Her younger assistant Muiri had eventually joined the conversation as well, and they had an enjoyable time cursing the way the cards had fallen in their lives.

 _Shiv?_ He writes in the dirt.

“Hey, Grisvar!” Odvan shouts, and the Nord stops mining to look back at them, surprised to see the new addition to the room. “The new guy wants a shiv.”

“Want protection, huh?” he huffs, dropping the pickaxe. “I can get you that, but you have to do something for me, first.”

Crow nods obediently. He wonders if running fetch missions for men without shirts on is going to be a recurring theme for his time here.

“Duach has a bottle of skooma; finest distilled moonsugar. I’m shaking just thinking about it.”

He holds his hand out for Crow’s inspection. Fine tremors run through his fingers, and Crow doesn’t bother telling him that the shakes are almost definitely from alcohol abuse. Addicts almost always get the symptoms confused, since skooma and drinking are habits that tend to go hand in hand.

Skooma withdrawal presents in other ways, like the sagging under his eyes and the way his feet drag when he walks. Lethargy for the price of euphoria.

He finds Duach secluded away from the others. Another reachman, with a beard and long, dark hair suggesting that there might be redguard blood running through his veins. He has rough hands and a feral look about him.

Crow takes a pickaxe and scratches on the wall, sick of kneeling.

 _Skooma_.

“Try it and I cut you open,” Duach snarls. “That skooma is mine.”

They’re far enough away that almost anything they do won’t be heard by the other prisoners. Crow drops the pickaxe and cracks his knuckles.

Technically, this is his preferred way of doing things, but usually he has a great deal of magic on his side making him move faster, hit harder, and shake off blows like they’re nothing. He’s never been in a flesh-only fight like this.

He lets the other man swing first, as a show of good faith. Duach is a lot taller and wider around the shoulders than Crow, but he’s gaunt. He’s been trapped in the mine for a long time, with nothing to do but take skooma and fight with equally weak prisoners.

Crow drives a fist against the man’s chin and hears a crack. Duach growls, spitting blood, and leaps forward with an unexpected speed, catching Crow around the waist and slamming him into the ground.

The back of his head hits the stone hard, and Duach knocks him across the face a few times as he attempts to recover from a brief blackout. The third punch breaks his nose, and suddenly he’s choking, struggling to breath around the blood and his collar.

He kicks Duach away and reels forward after him, wrapping hands around his throat and pressing down, down, down…

He stops before the man dies. A quick, searching hand through his clothes finds a few small bottles, and he knows by their shape and the viscosity of the substance that it’s what he’s looking for.

The trek back to Grisvar is admittedly a difficult one. His head spins, and every few steps he forgets what he’s doing, has to lean against a wall for a while and wait to remember. It’s one of the worst concussions he’s ever had, from a brawl that should have been laughably easy.

His blurring vision makes it impossible to pick out the details in the dirt, and as a result, his feet are cut up by the rocks and shards of glass he’d been so painstakingly avoiding before, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

He misses his magic. The magicka wells within him like a desert spring, only to be siphoned away by whatever wicked curses the collar binds him with. The comforting warmth of his restoration spells would be a welcome thing in this cold, dark cavern.

“By Mara’s beautiful eyes, you’re bleeding everywhere.”

It isn’t exactly concern in Grisvar’s voice, but it’s a close thing. Odvan leaps up and slings one of Crow’s arms over his shoulders, helping him to stop swaying where he stands. He flinches away, but Odvan holds him steady.

“You got knocked on the head,” the reachman realizes, lifting a hand to feel at the bloody wound staining his white hair red. A spike of pain jolts through Crow’s body and his knees buckle, stars bursting in his vision.

“Woah, alright, let’s sit down a minute, yeah?” Odvan mutters in Nedic, unaware that Crow can understand him. He slowly lowers him to the ground and leans him against the wall. His head rests on Odvan’s shoulder. “Nice kids like you shouldn’t be in this Gods-damned prison. A curse on that Silver-Blood. May his grave be unmarked and danced upon by the unforgiving spirits of the Reach.”

“I told you to speak in fucking Tamrielic or Nordic, asshole,” Grisvar interrupts. “I can’t understand you.”

“I wasn’t talking to you, you Nord prick,” retorts Odvan, looking up.

Crow slowly fades away to the sound of their bickering, the throbbing in his head getting louder and louder until all he can hear is his own heartbeat, reverberating through his skull like a Forsworn ceremonial drum, beat by hostile, foreign hands…

===

He wakes up shivering, ice cold fingers tracing along his forehead and providing relief as they go, drawing his pain up and out like a benevolent leech. He is laid on his back on a rugged surface. His shirt has been removed to reveal his bruised torso, and his feet are still bleeding, dripping over the sides of the stone slab.

He knows at once who is touching him. He opens his eyes slowly, a kind of dread settling as a low ache between his lungs; not malicious, but reverent and anticipatory, founded in a slew of instincts and a well of knowledge that has no real source.

“Well, well,” rasps Madanach, meeting the ruby gaze peering up at him with no small amount of fondness. “Look at you. The Nords have turned you into an animal. A wild beast caged up and left to go mad.”

His hand moves to rest gently upon the collar, and Crow feels the hex magic twist in its confines to get away from his touch, writhing slickly like eels. It’s sickening.

“Borkul says that you ended up like this while trying to get to me. I must say, I’m quite flattered,” he chuckles dryly, moving his hand to rest safely back on Crow’s forehead. “So, my fellow beast, what do you want? Answers? Revenge?”

Crow cannot answer him. Even if his voice was not locked tight behind so many walls, he would still have nothing to say. He had only known that he needed to find Madanach; the consequences of the encounter had no place in his foresight.

“What right do you have to meddle in my affairs? Kill my people? Was it worth it? Your truth?” Madanach interrogates, palm pressing down more firmly.

Crow remembers all of the Forsworn he has killed during his years in Skyrim, caught up in his own paranoia and hatred of being watched. Knowing full well that there might be consequences. Both too cautious and not cautious enough.

“You’re one of us now, you see? A slave. The boot of the Nord stepping on your throat. Maybe if you understood that, I could help you. Thanor had me in a collar just like that one, you know. It was only two weeks ago that I managed to free myself, but now that I have full access to my gifts, I could do the same for you quite easily.”

Two weeks ago. Just when he and Inigo had ascended from the Swindler’s Den, smoke rising from their clothes like wraiths. The ashes of the Alik’r fell from their bodies to the dirt with every step, marking a sinister path.

Their mission complete, and Crow had felt in him the calling to move west into the Reach, a tug at his core that usually indicates some fate-bound misfortune that only the dragonborn can resolve.

It was Madanach calling. Shame rises in him. He should be able to tell the difference.

“I _had_ Markarth,” Madanach hisses, calling his attention back. "My men and I drove the Nords out. We had _won_ , or so we thought. Retribution was swift. I was captured, quickly tried, and sentenced to death. But my execution never came.

“Thonar Silver-Blood stopped it. He wanted the Forsworn at his call, that I would point their rage at his enemies and spare his allies. And I have. Humiliating, at first, but I knew he would let down his guard eventually. That he would come to trust I was under control.

“My power comes from Nirn. You undoubtedly know this. I have spent the last thirty years drawing and building on what small amounts of energy I could gain from this damnable mine and storing it in different vessels where the collar couldn’t draw it away.

“Recently, I amassed enough power to break the collar’s hold. I’ve been working on a plan to escape this place with both myself and my people intact, but I would rest easier to know that the dragonborn will be there to guard our exit.”

Crow nods. He’d thought that was where this was going.

“Glad to see that you understand,” huffs Madanach, straightening up and pulling away. “If I free you from that Gods-forsaken thing, I’ll need a show of loyalty in return. I don’t want any of my men getting a shiv in the back during our escape just because you’ve got the spine of a snake.”

Crow nods again, irritation welling in the back of his throat. It’s not a habit of his to break deals, no matter the circumstances. He knows the power that words hold, but clearly the Forsworn King has looked upon him and found what he saw unconvincing.

“Have you met Grisvar the Unlucky? He’s rightly named, and he’s also a thief and a snitch. He’s outlived his minor usefulness. Take care of him, and then we can leave Cidhna mine for good.”

Crow takes a deep breath, hesitant. The fact that Grisvar is the only Nord in the mine doesn’t elude him. There’s that, and the matter of--

“Agree to this, and we can hash out a better deal once I free up your voice,” Madanach interrupts his thoughts. “I won’t bind you to a contract that you can only communicate about in yes’s and no’s.”

Crow exhales, relieved. The King has clearly been around long enough to know the dangers of a quickly-made agreement, and the concession he gives feels something like a truce.

He nods, and Madanach grins, placing his hand back on the collar.

“This is going to feel… kind of weird. If it starts to hurt, raise your hand. I’m not going to stop, but it’s best to keep me informed.”

His magic is a slow, curling thing that sinks into the cracks of the wards, filling the gaps between the hex locks. It takes the hits from the triggered traps with an elasticity that catches and disperses the reactions with minimal effort, driving forward into the spaces they leave behind.

Something cracks. Crow gasps for air, as suddenly Madanach’s magic is inside of his body, surrounding the core of his energy where it lies dormant. The spring from which his magicka is meant to flow is caged, a shape like a needle speared through the source and draining him of what he produces.

Madanach bends over and rests his forehead on Crow’s trembling stomach. His aura becomes richer, headier, and blends with Crow’s own, giving him a better look at what he’s doing at the center of it all.

Slowly, precisely, he pulls the needle out. Crow raises his hand, and Madanach chuckles, hand closing tighter around the collar. As the needle withdraws, swirling energy balloons up from the wound with a triumph, cascading through Crow and igniting, wreathing his entire body in flames.

Madanach ignores it, even as he is engulfed. The fire won’t hurt him; it recognizes him as its savior, even if its master is more reluctant. The needle is finally all the way out, so he crushes it to dust, absorbing its essence into himself. It is some potent mix of Alteration and Destruction, lighting along his nerves and fueling his advance.

He races towards the source of the dragonborn’s Voice, caught up in his throat and quaking with the fury of the dragons’ souls encased in his body, so fond of their host even as they agonize over the swift deaths he brought upon them.

The walls are shattered one by one, until finally the last seal breaks and the collar disintegrates into nothing, releasing the dragonborn’s voice with a piercing scream that shakes the foundations of the entire mine, torchlight flickering with the shifting air.

Crow’s chest heaves as the magic dissipates, sweat streaming down onto the stone slab. He curses in Dunmeri, then sits up abruptly at hearing his own voice, eyes wide. Madanach smiles.

Crow slowly turns to him, a deadly glint in his eyes and a coiling power thrumming through his aura that hadn’t been there before. Madanach’s smile drops and he visibly shivers, much to Crow’s delight.

“There’s a man that I was traveling with-- a blue khajiit. I want your men on the outside to find out if he’s still alive. If he is, I want his safety ensured. These are my terms, and in exchange I will lead you and your men out of this accursed place and back to the land of your forefathers.”


	13. Clashing

“Do you miss the Eltheric Ocean?” asks the raspy, always-curious voice of Rothvir. Inigo is less fond of him than the sailor, who’s name still remains unmentioned, because he keeps suggesting that they make a coat out of Inigo’s fur and be done with the whole ordeal. “Is it different, somehow, than the other oceans?”

“Of course it is,” snaps the sailor, nordic accent much stronger than his companion’s. “Different temperature, different fish-- different risks involved with sailing the Sea of Ghosts. They are the cruelest waters on Nirn, and only the most hardened warriors dare to venture out into its grasp.”

“Hmmm.” Rothvir is doubtful, and Inigo can smell how this infuriates the sailor.

It is difficult for him to keep track of time, constantly blindfolded and fed at random intervals by well-gloved hands, but he thinks it’s been something like weeks since he was taken.

They leave him slung over the horse when they make camp, unwilling to untie him even that much, so he’s lost most of the feeling in his legs from being stuck in the awkward position.

They feed the horse perhaps even less often than they feed him, and it’s a wonder that the beast doesn’t simply collapse beneath his weight.

The frosty breeze whispering through Inigo’s fur changes directions slightly, and he wonders how these buffoons still haven’t noticed that they’re being followed. The stench of sweat and unwashed bodies carries well on the northwestern winds, but he supposes that his captors might have a hard time noticing anything over their own odor.

Inigo himself likely smells even worse, though it is no fault of his own. He’s made no headway in his pleas to be let down, if only to use the bathroom, and he swears that if both he and the horse make it out of this alive, he’ll give the poor thing a bath.

It’s the least he can do.

He’s relying on the oncoming confrontation with the sneak-thieves as his primary opportunity to escape. His previous plan is out the window, because after about a day of scratching at his bindings, the sailor noticed his progress while checking the knots and promptly took a knife to Inigo’s claws.

His screams of agony drew the attention of a nearby caravan of khajiit merchants, who took it upon themselves to investigate. They lie dead in a valley somewhere near the Karth River, which Inigo’s captors decided to move away from shortly after, heading directly north.

There is still blood clotting in the fur on Inigo’s face, leftover from an arterial spray from one of the falling merchants. A large part of him wants to give up and go limp, but the rhythmic plodding of the horse bounces his skull repeatedly against the saddle if he doesn’t strain to keep his head upright, and the muscles in his neck burn with the continual effort.

He grinds his sharp teeth together and thinks of Crow, who is undoubtedly still alive and kicking ass somewhere out of reach.

Relishing in the adrenaline and glory of battle, he’ll forget all about his useless companion Inigo.

 _Who do you speak of_? Crow will ask absently, when someone-- maybe Altius-- mentions the disappearance of his dashing sidekick. _Some unlikely creature that once clung to my shadow_?

Or perhaps--

 _Ah, yes, that bastard_ , Crow will snarl. _He once tried to force me to eat an entire bushel of apples and a rotisserie chicken_.

A drum-beat suddenly starts up in the distant hills, low and pulsing with the life of Nirn. Rattling signal calls bounce around the mountainous area in tribal tongues, some odd combination of animal and human.

It is so out of place to hear such a thing so far north that it takes much Inigo longer than it should for him to realize what this means.

“Witchmen,” he whispers quietly, feeling his heartbeat accelerate with both excitement and fear. The sailor curses and draws his weapon, shouting for Rothvir to do the same.

The horse comes to a halt, and what happens in the split second afterwards is practically indecipherable through sound alone, leaving Inigo confused and terrified from his vulnerable position on the horse.

A choked off shout; the twanging finality of rope pulled taut; a deeply disturbing squelching sound; the smell of blood misting in the air, clouding Inigo’s senses, making him wheeze and shudder--

His bonds are severed and he tips forward onto the wet cobblestone, unable to catch himself as the blood in his body changes directions, rushing back into his limbs with the horrid feeling of a thousand tiny needles beneath his skin.

He spits out mud and snow and quickly pushes himself up into a sitting position, frantically scrabbling at his blindfold with blunt claws.

Someone behind him wrenches it off, and his vision burns white for a moment after so many days of living in darkness. He pants as the details come into focus, and finds himself kneeling in the middle of a road somewhere near Solitude, judging by the coniferous trees.

In front of him is a reachwoman clad in scarce furs and leathers, most of her skin left bare to the wintry air but for the dripping coat of blood seeping down her body. She smirks, eyes flashing dangerously above the tribal markings on her cheeks.

“I am Kaie.” Her voice rings with confidence and authority as she looks down her nose at Inigo’s shivering form. She has a Nedic accent so strong that even he has difficulty parsing out her words. “You are the blue khajiit that Madanach bid me to retrieve.”

Inigo’s heart sinks at the words. It seems he’s still going to be held accountable for his involvement in the conspiracy. He’s heard of the kind of treatment that prisoners of the Forsworn receive, and he’s not certain that it’s something he’s willing to withstand.

“Do you have… Crow?” he croaks, vocal chords painfully tense from both dehydration and the frozen atmosphere. Two of the other forsworn, reachmen with wide shoulders and bulging biceps, grab Inigo by the underarms and lift him up to stand, holding him at eye level with Kaie even as his knees give out beneath him.

“Uznahgaar?” She huffs. “King Madanach has him kept in... big tent above the caves at home. Rare to leave the bed. I have not seen his face since we first arrived.”

Inigo is speechless with horror at this news, and she laughs mockingly at his expression.

“We will be there within the week,” she reassures him, patting his cheek and inadvertently smearing more blood into his fur. “Forsworn travel double-fast on the path home.”

===

Crow watches the Forsworn mill about the Druadach Redoubt with narrowed eyes, trying to reconcile the vicious, flashing memories of their escape with the domestic scene he sees before him.

Some of them preen under his red-eyed gaze and sprawl their scantily-clad bodies on great rocks beneath the sun, expressions slowly turning dazed as the heat and light and comfort of being home seeps into their skin and softens their nature.

Others huddle together and make use of the crafting stations, intermittently finding excuses to touch each other, as though they cannot be sure of the reality that they are finally free and once more in the native furs of their people.

Uraccen refuses to leave his daughter Uaile’s side, following her around the camp as she introduces herself to the other Forsworn with a clear determination to fit in. Growing up in the city has left her out of place in the open air, which she resolves to overcome as soon as possible.

Odvan sits on top of a large ceremonial drum, carefully drafting a letter to Bothela explaining where he is and who he’s with. Watching over his shoulder and holding the inkpot is Duach, who steadfastly avoids looking anywhere near Crow’s vicinity.

Discovering that the dragonborn is the prisoner you beat the shit out of over a couple bottles of skooma is likely a revelation that strikes fear into a man’s heart, Crow surmises.

Borkul stands guard outside the entrance to Madanach’s massive tent, arms crossed and looking appropriately savage in his new attire. The white painted skull on his face nearly glows in the midday sun, giving his form an unearthly appearance.

He catches Crow staring and grins lasciviously, recently-sharpened tusks curving in a pleasing way over his upper lip. Crow scowls and looks away, and takes note of how the Forsworn that were already here when they arrived approach those from the mine with caution and a sort of reverence.

“Getting comfortable with the family, boy?” asks a dry voice behind him. Crow remains where he is, unwilling to honor Madanach with even the energy it would take to turn around.

“I am waiting for you to fulfill your end of the deal,” he replies simply. “I will leave shortly after.”

Madanach moves to rest his chin on Crow’s shoulder. He grits his teeth and utilizes the full scope of his flimsy willpower to resist shoving the older man off. Despite the recent amiability between them, it would be foolish to assume that he can get away with anything he pleases without some kind of consequence.

“You could have had anything you asked for, you know,” Madanach murmurs into his ear. “It’s not every day that one meets the dragonborn. I would have given you quite a lot. I still offer the Armor of the Old Gods.”

“I need nothing else from you,” Crow snaps, shifting in place until they are no longer touching. Madanach snickers.

“Your actions say otherwise.” He gestures a sweeping hand to the tent where they both spend their nights. “I initially had you pegged as an overly-cautious snake, I’ll admit; but your consent in this regard belies a blatant lack of self-preservation. What an intriguing tangle of contradictions you are, Uznahgaar.”

“Stop calling me that,” he hisses, extremely aware of the eyes and ears turned towards them from the lower camp. They all refuse to call him by his chosen name, and instead default to the one given to him without his say.

“Your dragon-name? Many would consider it an honor to have such a thing.”

“It did not suit me then; it does not suit me now. I am anything but free.”

“That is not _exactly_ what it means,” Madanach huffs, an amused glint in his eye. He moves to stand in Crow’s line of sight, and the picture he paints is so simultaneously barbaric and regal that Crow forgets to breathe for just a moment.

The body he wears is very old, likely chosen so that he would be underestimated. With the grayed hair, dull spotted skin, and wrinkles, one might estimate him to be in his early seventies, but Crow knows without needing to be told that there are hundreds of years behind that sly gaze.

“The only thing I need from you is the safe return of my companion,” he insists quietly.

“It is unwise to be so attached to mortal men,” offers Madanach. “But I suppose you’re still young, yet. Your friend will arrive sometime tomorrow. Kaie is heading the retrieval mission.”

Crow grimaces. “I see.”

“Hah! She’s not that bad, boy. You’re too quick to judge.”

“Am I? She sold half of my equipment before returning the rest, and was shocked when I noticed. You’re not exactly surrounding yourself with the brightest people.”

“Eh--” Madanach waggles his fingers in a so-so motion. “Each of them has their uses. Intelligence isn’t always necessary, though it is admittedly preferred. Besides, the loss of your armor means I get to see you in Forsworn attire, which is a glorious sight.”

Crow curses lowly in Dunmeri and wraps his arms around himself, fingers curling white-knuckled over his shoulders.

“It is impractical to walk around like this.” His gaze returns once more to the sunning natives without his permission, and he knows that because of his attention, they wrongly assume that he desires them.

He’s not sure they would appreciate knowing the real reason. He can see clearly in his mind’s eye the red-hot soup of vital organs beneath the soft lines of their exposed bellies, and some part of him expects to see them split neck to navel each time he looks back over.

“It’s a miracle that any of your people are still alive,” he adds, after spending an indeterminate amount of time silently contemplating this. Madanach is good at waiting out his tangential trains of thought, but Inigo is better.

Madanach laughs. “So _that_ is why you spend all of your time in my tent. A fear of being attacked in such a vulnerable state.”

Crow huffs. “If that were the reason, your tent would be the last place I would go. There is nothing more dangerous than the clashing of two men such as us.”

“Is that what young-folk are calling it these days? Clashing?”

“You know what I mean. I am not in the mood to play games.”

“You never are, boy.”

**Author's Note:**

> Get the amazing Inigo the Brave mod for Skyrim at https://bethesda.net/en/mods/skyrim/mod-detail/3288950  
> !!


End file.
